“Who’s the pious party in brown silk with the irregular dome on her roof?” asked Lynn.
“The minister’s second wife,” answered Aunt Peace, instantly gathering a personality from the brief description.
“So, as Herr Kaufmann says. Might one inquire about the jewel she wears?”
“It’s just a pin,” said Iris.
“It looks more like a glass case. In someway, it reminds me of a museum.”
“It has some of her first husband’s hair in it,” explained Iris.
“Jerusalem!” cried Lynn. “That’s the limit! Fancy the feelings of the happy bridegroom whose wife wears a jewel made out of her first husband’s fur! Not for me! When I take the fatal step, it won’t be a widow.”
“That,” remarked Margaret, calmly, “is as it may be. We have the reputation of being a bad lot.”
Lynn flushed, patted his mother’s hand awkwardly, and hastily beat a retreat. They heard him in the room overhead, walking back and forth, and practising feverishly.