“You do!” said Aunt Elizabeth. “Does it strike you as being a
love-letter!”
I couldn't answer fast enough. “Why, Aunt Elizabeth,” I said, “he tells
you so. He says he loves you eternally. It's beautiful!”
“You fool!” said Aunt Elizabeth. “You pink-cheeked little fool! You
haven't opened the door yet--not any door, not one of them--oh, you
happy, happy fool!” She called through the window (mother was arranging
flowers there for tea): “Ada, you must telephone the Banner. My
engagement is not to be announced.” Then she turned to me. “Peggy'” said
she, in a low voice, as if mother was not to hear, “to-morrow you must
drive with me to Whitman.”
Something choked me in my throat: either fear of her or dread of what
she meant to make me do. But I looked into her face and answered
with all the strength I had: “Aunt Elizabeth, I sha'n't go near the
hospital.”
“Don't you think it's decent for you to call on Mrs. Goward?” she asked.
She gave me a little shake. It made me angry. “It may be decent,” I
said, “but I sha'n't do it.”
“Very well,” said Aunt Elizabeth. Her voice was sweet again. “Then I
must do it for you. Nobody asks you to see Harry himself. I'll run in
and have a word with him--but, Peggy, you simply must pay your respects
to Mrs. Goward.”
“No! no! no!” I heard myself answering, as if I were in some strange
dream. Then I said: “Why, it would be dreadful! Mother wouldn't let me!”
Aunt Elizabeth came closer and put her hands on my shoulders. She has
a little fragrance about her, not like flowers, but old laces, perhaps,
that have been a long time in a drawer with orris and face-powder and
things. “Peggy,” said she, “never tell your mother I asked you.”