Every article of furniture stood in exactly the same place it
had always stood. Nothing was ever suffered to be disturbed.
The tassels of the crazy cushion lay just so over the arm
of the sofa, and the crochet antimacassar was always spread
at precisely the same angel over the horsehair rocking chair.
No speck of dust was ever visible; no fly ever invaded
that sacred apartment.
Aunt Olivia pulled up a blind, to let in what light could sift finely
through the vine leaves, and sat down in a high-backed old chair that had
appertained to her great-grandmother. She folded her hands in her lap,
and looked at us with shy appeal in her blue-gray eyes. Plainly she
found it hard to tell us her secret, yet all the time there was an air
of pride and exultation about her; somewhat, also, of a new dignity.
Aunt Olivia could never be self-assertive, but if it had been possible
that would have been her time for it.
"Have you ever heard me speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson?"
asked Aunt Olivia.
We had never heard her, or anybody else, speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson;
but volumes of explanation could not have told us more about him than did
Aunt Olivia's voice when she pronounced his name. We knew, as if it
had been proclaimed to us in trumpet tones, that Mr.
Pages:
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190