"I'm not forgetting it." Then sharply, "Shall you go to live at Crossroads?"
"No. Austin has made him an offer. He's coming back to town."
"What do you expect to live on?"
Silence. Then, uncertainly, "I thought perhaps until he gets on his feet you'd make us an allowance."
The old lady exploded in a short laugh. She gathered up her paper and her spectacles case and her bag of fancy work. Then she rose. "Not if you marry Richard Brooks. You may as well know that now as later, Eve. All your life you have shaken the plum tree and have gathered the fruit. You may come to your senses when you find there isn't any tree to shake."
The deep red in the cheeks of the old woman was matched by the red that stained Eve's fairness. "Keep your money," she said, passionately; "I can get along without it. You've always made me feel like a pauper, Aunt Maude."
The old woman's hand went up. There was about her a dignity not to be ignored. "I think you are saying more than you mean, Eve. I have tried to be generous."
They were much alike as they faced each other, the same clear cold eyes, the same set of the head, the only difference Eve's youth and slenderness and radiant beauty. Perhaps in some far distant past Aunt Maude had been like Eve. Perhaps in some far distant future Eve's soft lines would stiffen into a second edition of Aunt Maude.
"I have tried to be generous," Aunt Maude repeated.
"You have been. I shouldn't have said that. But, Aunt Maude, it hasn't been easy to eat the bread of dependence."