“Why, he isn't dead at all! He is what you call a grass-widower. The best soul in the world, everybody says, and very, very fond of her; but she couldn't stand it; he was too good, don't you understand? They've lived apart a great many years. She's lived a great deal in Asia Minor,—somewhere. She likes Venice; but of course there's no telling how long she may stay. She has another house in Florence, all ready to go and be lived in at a day's notice. I wish I had presented you! It did go through my head; but it didn't seem as if I could get the Blood out. It is a fearful name, Lydia; I always felt it so when I was a girl, and I was so glad to marry out of it; and it sounds so terribly American. I think you must take your mother's name, my dear. Latham is rather flattish, but it's worlds better than Blood.”
“I am not ashamed of my father's name,” said Lydia.
“But you'll have to change it some day, at any rate,—when you get married.”
Lydia turned away. “I will be called Blood till then. If Lady Fenleigh—”
“Yes, my dear,” promptly interrupted her aunt, “I know that sort of independence. I used to have whole Declarations of it. But you'll get over that, in Europe. There was a time—just after the war—when the English quite liked our sticking up for ourselves; but that's past now. They like us to be outlandish, but they don't like us to be independent. How did you like the sermon? Didn't you think we had a nicely-dressed congregation?”
“I thought the sermon was very short,” answered Lydia.
“Well, that's the English way, and I like it. If you get in all the service, you must make the sermon short.”
Lydia did not say anything for a little while. Then she asked, “Is the service the same at the evening meeting?”
“Evening meeting?” repeated Mrs. Erwin.
“Yes,—the church to-night.”