“Walter writes for a paper,” Florence said distantly, determined to find out if Mr. Baines was being rude on purpose. A little dull curiosity came into his eyes, as he looked up and asked—
“Walter—who’s Walter?”
“I am,” laughed the owner of the name; “but she needn’t have betrayed me.” Mr. Baines was in no way disconcerted.
“Oh! you write for a paper, do you? Well, I am sorry for you; you might do something much better. Oh, here’s Anne; now we had better go and eat.” With the aid of a stick, he shuffled out of the chair, refusing Walter’s offered help. “I didn’t know you wrote for a paper, or I would have held my tongue,” he said, as a sort of apology. “No, thank you, I am all right once I am on my feet.”
Florence and Walter were astonished when they looked at Aunt Anne. They hardly knew her again. The shabby black shawl had vanished, the dusty bonnet was replaced by a soft white cap; there was lace at her throat fastened by a little crinkly gold brooch that had a place for hair in the middle: her satin dress trailed an inch or two on the ground behind, and she had put a red carnation in her bosom almost coquettishly.
“Now, dears,” she said, with a smile of welcome that was fascinating from its absolute genuineness, “I shall be truly hurt if you fail to do justice to our simple repast”—and she sat down with an air of old-fashioned stateliness as if she were heading a banquet table. “Sit down, dears. Robert, you must have Florence on your right hand.”
The Hibberts took their places merrily, their spirits reviving now that they were no longer alone with their host. Aunt Anne, too, looked so picturesque sitting there in the little summer-like room, with the garden beyond, that they could not help being glad they had come. They felt that they were living a distinct day in their lives, and not one that afterwards in looking back they would find difficult to sort out from a hundred others like it.
Even Mr. Baines grew less grumpy, and offered presently to show them the garden.
“And the plum-trees and the pear-trees,” said Aunt Anne; “and the view from the summer-house in the corner.”
“Oh yes,” her husband said, “we’ll show them all;” and he helped to do the honours of the table with what he evidently intended to be genial courtesy.