“I thought I would wear it. I thought he—I should seem—more natural in it. I wore it all the time on the ship, except Sundays. He said—he liked it the best.”
Mrs. Erwin shook her head. “It wouldn't do. Everything must be on a new basis now. He might like it; but it would be too romantic, wouldn't it, don't you think?” She shook her head still, but less decisively. “Better wear your silk. Don't you think you'd better wear your silk? This is very pretty, and the dark blue does become you, awfully. Still, I don't know—I don't know, either! A great many English wear those careless things in the house. Well, wear it, Lydia! You do look perfectly killing in it. I'll tell you: your uncle was going to ask you to go out in his boat; he's got one he rows himself, and this is a boating costume; and you know you could time yourselves so as to get back just right, and you could come in with this on—”
Lydia turned pale. “Oughtn't I—oughtn't I—to be here?” she faltered.
Her aunt laughed gayly. “Why, he'll ask for me, Lydia.”
“For you?” asked Lydia, doubtfully.
“Yes. And I can easily keep him till you get back. If you're here by four—”
“The train,” said Lydia, “arrives at three.”
“How did you know?” asked her aunt, keenly.
Lydia's eyelids fell even lower than their wont.
“I looked it out in that railroad guide in the parlor.”