“Aunt Josephine always makes strangers think she’s displeased with them.”
I replied like the young ass which I constantly tell myself I have ceased to be: “Oh, displeasure is as much notice as one is entitled to from Miss St. Michael.”
The girl laughed with her delightful sweet mockery.
“I declare, you’re huffed! Now don’t tell me you’re not. But you mustn’t be. When you know her, you’ll know that that awful manner means Aunt Josephine is just being shy. Why, even I’m not afraid of her George Washington glances any more!”
“Very well,” I laughed, “I’ll try to have your courage.” Over my chocolate and sandwiches I sat in curiosity discreditable, but natural. Who was in bed—who would have to shake hands? And why had they stopped talking when I came in? Of course, I found myself hoping that John Mayrant had put the owner of the Hermana in bed at the slight cost of a bruise above his left eye. I wondered if the cake was again countermanded, and I started upon that line. “I think I’ll have to-day, if you please, another slice of that Lady Baltimore.” And I made ready for another verbal skirmish.
“I’m so sorry! It’s a little stale to-day. You can have the last slice, if you wish.”
“Thank you, I will.” She brought it. “It’s not so very stale,” I said. “How long since it has been made?”
“Oh, it’s the same you’ve been having. You’re its only patron just now.”
“Well, no. There’s Mr. Mayrant.”
“Not for a week yet, you remember.”