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Geraldine was so stylish, and might think it queer; and then Aunt Cyrilla always would carry it on her arm and give cookies and apples and molasses taffy out of it to every child she encountered and, just as often as not, to older folks too.
"Commonplace," said Cyrilla. "All men are so. That's why the papers always describe the woman as pretty and why the pictures are published." "Really? Yes, I suppose so." Baird looked chagrined. "Anyhow, here I am, all for one woman. And why? I can't explain it to myself. She's pretty, lovely, entrancing sometimes. She has charm, grace, sweetness.
Lucy Rose had done her brave best for some years in fact, ever since she had put up her hair and lengthened her skirts to break Aunt Cyrilla of the habit of carrying that basket with her every time she went to Pembroke; but Aunt Cyrilla still insisted on taking it, and only laughed at what she called Lucy Rose's "finicky notions."
Or, was that notion of a change merely the offspring of her own somber mood? Seeing that Mrs. Brindley would not begin, she broke the silence herself. Said she awkwardly: "I've decided to move. In fact, I've got to move." Cyrilla laid down the book and regarded her tranquilly. "Of course," said she. "I've already begun to arrange for someone else."
"There's been so much snow already that traffic is blocked half the time, and now there ain't no place to shovel the snow off onto." Aunt Cyrilla said that if the train were to get to Pembroke in time for Christmas, it would get there; and she opened her basket and gave the stationmaster and three small boys an apple apiece. "That's the beginning," groaned Lucy Rose to herself.
"I hadn't thought of that," said Cyrilla. "Yes, you're right. If he had hinted the other thing, you could have pretended not to understand. If he had suggested it, you could have made him feel cheap and mean." "I did," said Mildred. "He has been really wonderful better than almost any man would have been more considerate than I deserved. And I took advantage of it."
He's just a friend so much the friend that he couldn't possibly think of me as as a woman, needing him and wanting him" her eyes were on fire now, and a soft glow had come into her cheeks "and never daring to show it because if I did he would fly and never let me see him again." Cyrilla Brindley's face was tragic as she looked at the beautiful girl, so gracefully adjusted to the big chair.
"I was simply making conversation with her as the subject." "Oh, I see." Stanley settled back. "Suppose she should prove not to be a great artist what then?" persisted Cyrilla, who was deeply interested in the intricate obscure problem of what people really thought as distinguished from what they professed and also from what they imagined they thought.
"And how it can rejoice!" she cried bravely. "I must not forget to mention that. Ah, my dear, you must learn to live intensely. If I had had your chance!" "Ridiculous!" laughed Mildred. "You talk like an old woman. And I never think of you as older than myself." "I AM an old woman," said Cyrilla. And, with a tightening at the heart Mildred saw, deep in the depths of her eyes, the look of old age.
Aunt Cyrilla went to her basket and took out her box of cream candy. "I guess we might as well enjoy ourselves. Let's eat it all up and have a good time. Maybe we'll get down to Pembroke in the morning." The little group grew cheerful as they nibbled, and even the pale girl brightened up. The little mother told Aunt Cyrilla her story aside.
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