Meg, of Valencia Part 5

Meg smiled at her sunnily, and replied, "Well, I like it-it doesn't fade, washes well, is economical-"

"And-?" queried her aunt with uplifted eyebrows.

"And is becoming," finished the girl calmly. Then she added: "What would you have me wear? It would be neither suited to you nor to the glorious summer season to wear drab."

"Pink?" suggested her aunt.

"Oh, Auntie, with my hair!"

Mrs. Weston almost smiled.

"Yellow?" she continued.

"Too vivid," objected Meg.

"Then blue," said her aunt hesitatingly.

"That's _your_ color," replied Meg, with laughing eyes, "and as it wouldn't become me so well, I wouldn't think of wearing it."

Mrs. Weston's smile deepened, spread all over her face, into the creases she still fondly believed to be dimples, and diplomatic relations were established.

Meg picked up the morning paper, and propping it against the coffee-pot, began scanning the head-lines of the first page. "I declare," her aunt commented, "you are as bad as a man about reading at the breakfast-table."

The girl smiled. "When I marry," she announced, "I shall take a lesson in managing a husband from that dear, clever little friend of mine in Atchison, whose husband takes his 'ease in his inn,' sitting in a rocking-chair while he eats. He shows his appreciation of the privilege, by holding her hand between bites. Just think!" she added pensively, "they have been married five years, and he still loves her!"

"I don't see what that has to do with your reading the paper at the breakfast table."

"Why, Auntie," and Meg looked reproachfully at her over the paper, "you know I do it to save you the trouble of reading it yourself. Let me see what is happening." And she glanced over the front page. "'More Macedonians murdered,'-we won't go into the details, please,-'Jealous lover shoots sweetheart,'-I'm glad I'm redheaded; it saves complications,-'Woman murders faithless husband,'-oh, what a b.l.o.o.d.y world we live in! No, it is a beautiful world," she said softly, after a little pause, "when there are such women as Helen Gould in it. She has been giving the waifs another outing at her lovely home. Mrs.

Stuyvesant Fish has consented to an interview. She declares that America must have an aristocracy. She doesn't say whether it will be an aristocracy of brains or money. It must be the former, as she deplores the depredations on the outskirts of society, committed by the vulgar rich. Yes, of course it is of brains,-that order of brains which can originate 'cute' things with which to amuse and entertain the elect."

Mrs. Weston, growing restive, interposed, "That does not interest me.

Read the local news."

"You are so provincial, Auntie," was Meg's comment, as she turned the paper; "you belong so hopelessly to Valencia!"

"Well, so do you," was the brief retort.

"Not in the way I mean, my dear Aunt! My spirit is cosmopolitan, though, Prometheus-like, I am chained to Valencia. While my head is in the clouds, my feet are, oh, very much on the earth!"

"You do talk the greatest nonsense."

"Do I? Then I'll read to you instead of talking. 'Mrs. Guy Worthington Deflurry has returned from an extended Eastern trip.'"

"Mrs. who? oh, Mrs. Deflurry? I suppose she had some handsome clothes made while she was gone." Mrs. Weston was tremulous with excitement.

"Do you know the lady?" Meg asked idly. "No? I thought from your interest that she was a dear friend. 'Miss Cordelia Jamison has departed for Michigan to visit friends.' 'It is rumored that a rich bachelor is to be wedded to a handsome young widow.'"

Mrs. Weston was all in a flutter instantly. "Who can it mean? Surely,-"

she giggled foolishly, "surely people cannot think that Mr. Spencer and I-"

Meg put down the paper with a judicial air. "I have always held," she said, "that the newspaper habit was a pernicious one for some people. I will read no more to you. It goes to your head."

"Why, Meg Anthony, you might at least remember that I am older than you, and treat me with some respect!"

Meg opened her eyes wide. "But you are not!" she protested. "I am centuries older than you. I am a relic of the dark ages, while you,-Auntie, I really believe you are the youngest woman I know."

A smile encompa.s.sed Mrs. Weston's entire face at what she considered a compliment, and in the exuberance of her sudden good-humor, she said, "How would you like to invite Mr. Spencer, his sister and nephew to come to dinner to-morrow night?"

"Oh, Auntie, can we really do it?" Meg cried ecstatically.

"Yes," answered her aunt; "I'll go and interview Delia about it. I think I'll have some little-neck clams-the canned ones, you know,-some kind of cream soup, a roast course, an entree, salad-"

"Auntie!" interrupted Meg sternly, "You know we can't afford any such frills! And with only one servant! Let's call it supper, and give them just a plain meal, nicely cooked and served."

A dull purplish color mingled with the yellow of Mrs. Weston's face, as she questioned with angry dignity, "Am I, or am I not mistress here?

When did I give over the reins of government into your hands? If I need your advice, young lady, I'll seek it." With ruffled plumage, she went into the kitchen to settle the details with Delia.

CHAPTER VIII.

"I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good."

On the evening of Mrs. Weston's dinner-for she held to the dinner idea in spite of Meg's protests-the weather was so hot that the heavy, poorly cooked meal was appreciated by no one but the hostess, who plumed herself that she had surprised the guests with her cuisine.

Which, indeed, was true.

They sat in the stuffy dining-room while course after course was brought and taken away. Through the window Meg caught the scent of roses, and could see that a breeze gently stirred the leaves of the trees. Turning with a sigh from the temptations without, she glanced at her aunt. The work of entertaining, with the heat, had robbed her hair of its curl, and the damp, straight locks hung limply around her forehead, which was beaded with perspiration.

Meg felt an impish satisfaction when she beheld the wreck. Turning, she met Robert's eyes, and asked, "What were you saying?"

"I was recalling a remark you made the first evening I met you,-that you were a gourmand. You have scarcely tasted your food to-night."

"I was several hundred years younger then," she retorted; "but if you had been giving the proper attention to your own plate you would not have noticed it."

Leaning toward her, he murmured, "I know it's horribly rude, especially as you are co-hostess-" she put up a deprecating hand-"but my extreme youth and callowness will have to be my excuse."

"Callousness, did you say?"

"You know what I said. When will this thing come to an end? I'm dying to get out on the porch and get a whiff of air."

"So am I," she whispered back. "Let me see,-where are we?"

He glanced down at his plate, and then said apologetically, "Well, really--"

"Oh, yes," she interrupted, stirring the contents of her plate with a fork, "this is what Delia called the 'entry.' Delia claims to be the direct descendant of a famous French cook. I believe his name was Brian Boru."

"Ah, Delia and I are cousins. And after the 'entry,' what then?" he whispered.