“My bonnet!” cried Miss Hewitt. She caught sight of herself in a glass, and bridled and smiled at herself, instinctively arranging the bow of red ribbon that was tied under her chin. “I never had such a becoming bonnet in my life; and as for mourning, there’s nobody could expect me to put on black for her.”
“No,” said Patty, “and that’s why I hadn’t expected even a call from you, Aunt Patience, during the mourning—not being in any way a real connection of the house.”
Miss Hewitt fixed her eyes very wide open upon those of her niece, and the two maintained a silent combat by that method for at least a minute. It was the elder who gave in the first. “If that’s how you’re going to treat your own relations,” she said, “Patty, you’ll not see much of me. And I can tell you, as well as if it had happened already, you won’t see much of other folks. There’s none of the grand people as you’re looking for that will come near the place. The rector’ll call because he’s bound to, and because you was once his show girl at the Sunday School; and the new curate will call to see if he can get a subscription for something, but, mark you my words: nobody else—no, not a soul! and when you’ve bundled everybody belonging to you out of your doors, then you’ll see who you’ll have to speak to. I’m sorry for you, Patty, I am indeed.”
“Are you, Aunt Patience?” cried Patty, with defiance. “When it comes to that, I’ll send for you back.”
“It’s a deal easier,” said Miss Hewitt sententiously, “to whistle folks away than to bring them back.”
But after this there was a cessation of hostilities, and in the end Miss Hewitt was taken over the house to see all its splendours, which, as much as possible, she depreciated. She was the only witness of her elevation whom Patty had as yet had, and though some sacrifice of pride and spirit was necessary, a natural longing to impress and dazzle her world, through the means of some spectator, was still stronger. Patty went so far as to offer her aunt some of those pairs of silk stockings which Parsons had been counting when her new mistress fell upon her. “They’re such good stockings,” Patty said, “but miles too big for me.” “If you think I’ll wear her old cast-off things!” cried Miss Hewitt, purple with rage, flinging them back into the drawers from which Patty had taken them. “And my foot, if anything, is a little smaller than yours,” she added, with angry satisfaction. But when the visitor lingered and at last betrayed her desire to be asked to stay for “dinner”—a word which came out unadvisedly, and which she immediately corrected, with a blush—“Lunch, I suppose you call it,”—Patty assumed very high ground.
“My dear Aunt! if we were by ourselves of course it would not matter; but dear papa always takes his luncheon along with us.”
“And who’s dear papa?” asked Miss Hewitt, with natural derision.
“I mean Sir Giles, of course; he’s in very delicate health, and we have to be very careful.”
“Sir Giles,” said Miss Hewitt grimly, “has seen me before.”