“
To-night,” said Aunt Peace, “we will sit in the garden.”
It was Wednesday, and the rites in the house were somewhat relaxed, though Iris, from force of habit, polished the tall silver candlesticks until they shone like new. Miss Field herself made a pan of little cakes, sprinkled them with powdered sugar, and put them away. She was never lovelier than when at her dainty tasks in her spotless kitchen. By some alchemy of the spirit, she made the homely duties of the day into pleasures—simple ones, perhaps, but none the less genuine.
No one alluded to the fact that Doctor Brinkerhoff was coming. “Of course,” as Iris said to Lynn, “we don’t know that he is, but since he’s missed only one Wednesday in ten years, we may be pardoned for expecting him.”
“One might think so,” agreed Lynn, laughing. He took keen delight in the regular Wednesday evening comedy.
“We make the little cakes for tea,” continued Iris, her eyes dancing.
“But we never have ’em for tea,” Lynn objected, “and I wish you’d quit talking about ’em. It disturbs my peace of mind.”
“Pig!” exclaimed Iris. They were alone, and her face was dangerously near his. Her rosy lips were twitching in a most provoking way, and, immediately, there were Consequences.
She left the print of four firm fingers upon Lynn’s cheek, and he rubbed the injured place ruefully. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t kiss you,” he said.