of how her father had begged her to stay with him. "So I promised."
"You see," Crispin said, "perhaps it is natural that she should want to stay. But it's a mistake."
He took off his fur coat and hung it up in the hall. When he came back in his rough tweed suit with belted coat and knickerbockers, the old women thought him beautiful. If he had worn silver armor, he could not have been for them more imposing and impressive.
He insisted on helping them serve the dinner. He carried the chicken-pie, brown and bubbling, high on its platter like a boar's head. He took the head of the table and said grace. The aunts had a fluttering sense of the strangeness of it all, yet liked it, and were flushed with pleasure at his praise of the good food.
While they ate, Crispin told them of his visit to Round Hill and of his impressions of Louis Carew. He pictured Hildegarde's life of luxury.
"You should see her in the gowns they have bought for her. She takes to it all like a duck to water. She's lovely, and Carew's friends are crazy about her. He thinks I'm crude and a country clod. But I don't care. There are things I think about him which more than match his opinion of me. It is a duel between us—I shall fight to the finish."
He spoke frankly of his feeling for Hildegarde, and as they listened, the two dark old women were aware of a sense of vicarious adventure. It was wonderful to sit there with that young voice beating against their hearts. Crispin was deeply moved, eloquent in his disappointment; they felt his tragedy, suffered with him.
