I felt a little conscience-stricken myself, to own the truth. I knew I had behaved inexcusably to the strange old woman, and the consciousness of this made me gentler and more conciliatory, so to speak, than I might otherwise have been. So the birthday party went off peacefully, and on the whole, pleasantly, though somehow not as merrily and cheerily as was usual with the Whytes’ simple festivities. Evey was very pleased with the monogram brooch, so pleased that I could afford not to feel jealous when she warmly thanked Anna for her present of a neat and well-made, but extraordinarily ugly, toilet-pincushion. And I was able heartily to admire the other presents, all from her own family, and mostly of home manufacture.
“Evey’s best present hasn’t come yet,” said Mary. “It’s a post late somehow.”
“It’s sure to come this evening,” said Evey, hopefully.
“Papa’s going to walk in to the post-office to see; you know we don’t get afternoon letters unless we send for them. And there’s sure to be a letter too; indeed, that’s almost what we care most for.”
“But what is the present?” I asked curiously. “Whom is it from? And is it always the same thing? And why do you care so for a stupid letter?”
Yvonne hesitated. She and Mary looked at each other.
“I am sure you may tell Connie,” said innocent Mary.
“Well,” said Evey, “I can tell part any way. The present, that we call my best present,” she went on, “comes from my godmother, papa’s aunt. It isn’t always the same, but it’s always something very nice and useful. Last year it was two muffs and four pairs of gloves, for me to do what I liked with; so of course I gave one muff and two pairs of gloves—we take the same size, you know—to Mary. And this year we were half hoping it might be jackets.”
“What stupid presents,” I said. “I don’t care a bit for clothes presents.”