Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. ” Annabel laughed hardly. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. And how could I come home—when he locks me in rooms and all that?” “I do wish this wasn’t going on,” said Miss Stanley, after a pause. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English.
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