Lily was vaguely disappointed. Aunt Elinor, in soft gray silk,
matronly, assured, unenthusiastically pleased to see her; Doyle
himself, cheerful and suave; the neat servant; the fire lit,
comfortable room,--there was no drama in all that, no hint of
mystery or tragedy. All the hatred at home for an impulsive assault
of years ago, and--this!
"Lily, dear!" Elinor said, and kissed her. "Why, Lily, you are a
woman!"
"I am twenty, Aunt Elinor."
"Yes, of course. I keep forgetting. I live so quietly here that
the days go by faster than I know." She put Lily back in her chair,
and glanced at her husband.
"Is Louis coming to dinner, Jim?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you cannot stay, Lily?"
"I ought to tell you, Aunt Elinor. Only mother knows that I am here."
Aunt Elinor smiled her quiet smile.
"I understand, dear. How are they all?"
"Grandfather is very well. Father looks tired. There is some trouble
at the mill, I think."
Elinor glanced at Doyle, but he said nothing.
"And your mother?"
"She is well."
Lily was commencing to have an odd conviction, which was that her
Aunt Elinor was less glad to have her there than was Jim Doyle.
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