Though Bertha abhorred all innovations, she had meekly accepted Edward’s improvements: they formed an inexhaustible topic of conversation, and his enthusiasm always pleased her.
“By Jove,” he said, rubbing his hands, “the changes will make your aunt simply jump, won’t they?”
“They will indeed,” said Bertha, smiling.
She shuddered a little at the prospect of Miss Ley’s sarcastic praise.
“She’ll hardly recognise the place; the house looks as good as new, and the grounds might have been laid out only half-a-dozen years ago.... Give me five years more and even you won’t know your old home.”
Miss Ley had at last accepted one of the invitations which Edward insisted should be showered upon her, and wrote to say she was coming down for a week. Edward was of course much pleased; as he said, he wanted to be friends with everybody, and it didn’t seem natural that Bertha’s only relative should make a point of avoiding them.
“It looks as if she didn’t approve of our marriage, and it makes the people talk.”
He met the good lady at the station, and somewhat to her disgust greeted her with effusion.
“Ah, here you are at last!” he bellowed, in his jovial way. “We thought you were never coming. Here, porter!” He raised his voice so that the platform shook and rumbled.
He seized both Miss Ley’s hands, and the terrifying thought flashed through her head that he would kiss her before the assembled multitude.