“The chickens and the cream and the company,” laughed Florence, as Jane went out of the room; “it sounds like a line from a comic poem. What does she mean?”
Aunt Anne winked as if to give herself nerve.
“Jane was very impertinent to me one day, my love, because I felt sure that after the fatigue of the journey from town, and the change of air, you would prefer that your delicately-nurtured children should eat chicken and have cream with their second course every day for dinner, instead of roast mutton and milk pudding. White meat is infinitely preferable for delicate digestions.”
“Yes, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said sweetly, and she felt a sudden dread of opening the books, “you are quite right.” But what did a few chickens and a little cream matter in comparison to the poor old lady’s feelings? she thought. “And if you had company too, of course you wanted to have a smarter table. Whom have you been entertaining, you dear and dissipated Aunt Anne?”
“My dear Florence, I have entertained no one but Mr. Wimple. He is a friend of yours and your dear Walter’s, and I tried to prove to him that I was worthy to belong to you, by showing him such hospitality as lay in my power.”
“Yes, dear, and it was very kind of you,” Florence said tenderly. After all, why should Aunt Anne be worried through that horrid Mr. Wimple? Walter would have invited him if he had found him in the neighbourhood, and why should not Aunt Anne do so in peace, if it pleased her? Of course, now that she herself had returned she could do as she liked about him. She looked at the books. They were not so very bad, after all.
“Shall we make up our accounts now, and get it over, or in the morning?” she asked.
“I should prefer the morning,” Aunt Anne said meekly. “To-night, love, you must be tired, and I am also fatigued with the excitement consequent on seeing you.”
“What a shame, poor Aunt Anne!” Florence said brightly. “I have worn you out.”
“Only with happiness, my dear,” said the old lady, fondly.