There was a certain tender gravity in his face as he offered her his hand, which she purposely ignored. He flushed at this, but being familiar with her somewhat prickly disposition, saw nothing significant in her refusal to shake hands with him. “How is Aunt Amelia?” he asked idly, as he seated himself.
“As ravishingly disagreeable as usual, thank you,” was the somewhat snappy retort.
“Has your supply of kerosene oil run out? You don’t seem to have been lighting the piano-lamp lately, with the music-box accompaniment.”
She almost smiled, but thought better of it, and replied, “My ambition in that line has been nearly killed for lack of encouragement. Candles and a jew’s-harp are about as near as I can approach to my shaded lights and soft music.”
After a pause she said: “I’m sorry she’s not here just now. It will grieve her to learn that she has missed a gentleman caller. They are not standing in line any longer, so she can’t afford to lose one.”
“I did not come to see your aunt.”
Meg ignored his remark, and kept on: “She heard this morning of a new skin balm, and she has torn madly down town to procure it. She will be in rare good-humor when she returns. She always is after buying something to enhance her beauty.”
Robert was watching her face with intense interest as she talked, and made no reply.
“It’s something all the time,” she complained; “either her face is smeared with grease, or thick with some chalky mixture which gives her a clown-like appearance, or else,—oh, the worst of all, the very limit, was the rubber mask! While she wore that I used to lock my door at night for fear she would come in my room for something, and scare me into spasms!”
As she talked a severe expression came into Robert’s face. “Margie!” he remonstrated.