"You've been careful not to give me an earlier chance," I said. "How is
your Aunt Mehitable by this time?"
"She is able to sit up and take a bit of nourishment." Then: "How you
do hate poor Aunt Mehitable, don't you?"
"As I see it, I haven't any particularly good reason to squander any
part of my scanty store of affection upon her. Did she know I was going
to make one of this mixed-up ship's-quota?"
"Honestly, I don't think she did. She said a tremendous lot of things
last night when she saw you with Bonteck. Aren't you going to be decent
to her?"
"She is Bonteck's guest, or one of them, and I'm another. South
America and the tropics haven't sacked me of quite all of the
conventionalities."
"How nice! Of course, we've all been supposing they had. When are you
going to tell me some more about the Castilian princess? the one you
could have married, and didn't--to your later sorrow."
Strange as it may seem, all this light-hearted mockery cut into me
much more deeply than any real bitterness could have. Because, let me
explain, it was precisely the attitude she used to hold toward me in
the old days when the mockeries were only so many love taps, as one
might say; a sort of joyous letting down, or keying up, for her, after
a day-long immurement with a crotchety, sharp-tongued maiden aunt.
"I've told you all there is to tell," I said, as gruffly as I could.
"Oh, dear, no; I'm sure you haven't. Was she--is she--very beautiful?
But of course she must be; luminous dark eyes burning with--er--with
all sorts of things; midnight hair; an olive skin so clear and
transparent that you can almost see through it; little aristocratic
hands--blue-blooded hands; and a figure ... tell me, is she large and
queenly? or petite and child-like?"