Malcolm MacPherson would
hasten to inspect each at once and she must stand or fall
by his opinion of them.
Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing
her best black silk, in which she looked unnaturally fine.
Her soft muslin became her much better, but we could not induce
her to wear it. Anything more prim and bandboxy than Aunt Olivia
when her toilet was finished it has never been my lot to see.
Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, her skirt held
stiffly up all around her that it might not brush the floor.
"'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' will be inspired with such awe
that he will only be able to sit back and gaze at her,"
whispered Peggy. "I wish he would come and have it over.
This is getting on my nerves."
Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old
carved chair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down
on the stairs to await his coming in a crisping suspense.
Aunt Olivia's kitten, a fat, bewhiskered creature, looking as
if it were cut out of black velvet, shared our vigil and purred
in maddening peace of mind.
We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window,
and therefore supposed we should have full warning of the approach
of Mr.
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