“Do you know the lady?” Meg asked idly. “No? I thought from your interest that she was a dear friend. ‘Miss Cordelia Jamison has departed for Michigan to visit friends.’ ‘It is rumored that a rich bachelor is to be wedded to a handsome young widow.’”
Mrs. Weston was all in a flutter instantly. “Who can it mean? Surely,—” she giggled foolishly, “surely people cannot think that Mr. Spencer and I—”
Meg put down the paper with a judicial air. “I have always held,” she said, “that the newspaper habit was a pernicious one for some people. I will read no more to you. It goes to your head.”
“Why, Meg Anthony, you might at least remember that I am older than you, and treat me with some respect!”
Meg opened her eyes wide. “But you are not!” she protested. “I am centuries older than you. I am a relic of the dark ages, while you,—Auntie, I really believe you are the youngest woman I know.”
A smile encompassed Mrs. Weston’s entire face at what she considered a compliment, and in the exuberance of her sudden good-humor, she said, “How would you like to invite Mr. Spencer, his sister and nephew to come to dinner to-morrow night?”
“Oh, Auntie, can we really do it?” Meg cried ecstatically.
“Yes,” answered her aunt; “I’ll go and interview Delia about it. I think I’ll have some little-neck clams—the canned ones, you know,—some kind of cream soup, a roast course, an entrée, salad—”
“Auntie!” interrupted Meg sternly, “You know we can’t afford any such frills! And with only one servant! Let’s call it supper, and give them just a plain meal, nicely cooked and served.”
A dull purplish color mingled with the yellow of Mrs. Weston’s face, as she questioned with angry dignity, “Am I, or am I not mistress here? When did I give over the reins of government into your hands? If I need your advice, young lady, I’ll seek it.” With ruffled plumage, she went into the kitchen to settle the details with Delia.