He has bought the old
Lynde place in Avonlea and wants to be married in a month.
But, dear me, that is too soon. It--it would be hardly proper."
Peggy and I liked Mr. Malcolm MacPherson very much. So did father.
We were glad that he seemed to think Aunt Olivia perfection.
He was as happy as the day was long; but poor Aunt Olivia,
under all her surface pride and importance, was not.
Amid all the humour of the circumstances Peggy and I snuffed
tragedy compounded with the humour.
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson could never be trained to old-maidishness,
and even Aunt Olivia seemed to realize this. He never stopped
to clear his boots when he came in, although she had an
ostentatiously new scraper put at each door for his benefit.
He seldom moved in the house without knocking some of Aunt Olivia's
treasures over. He smoked cigars in her parlour and scattered
the ashes over the floor. He brought her flowers every day
and stuck them into whatever receptacle came handiest.
He sat on her cushions and rolled her antimacassars up into balls.
He put his feet on her chair rungs--and all with the most
distracting unconsciousness of doing anything out of the way.
He never noticed Aunt Olivia's fluttering nervousness at all.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200