Many
of them had driven fifty miles. In the big autumnal orchard the younger
fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs, in "old"
Mrs. John's bedroom, she and her married daughters held high conclave.
"Old" John had established himself with his sons and sons-in-law
in the parlour, and the three daughters-in-law were making themselves
at home in the blue sitting-room, ear-deep in harmless family gossip.
Lucinda and Romney Penhallow were also there.
Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and toasted
her toes at the grate, for the brilliant autumn afternoon was
slightly chilly and Lucinda, as usual, had the window open.
She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most of the talking.
Mrs. George Penhallow being rather out of it by reason of her newness.
She was George Penhallow's second wife, married only a year.
Hence, her contributions to the conversation were rather spasmodic,
hurled in, as it were, by dead reckoning, being sometimes appropriate
and sometimes savouring of a point of view not strictly Penhallowesque.
Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the chatter
of the women, with the inscrutable smile that always vexed
Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within herself what he did
there among the women.
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