"Why not? It is heavenly outside. And we'll be home in time for supper."
Well, if heaven for these two meant facing the elements there was no reason why they shouldn't. The old aunts watched the lovers go down the path. A sweep of wind buffeted them, swirled around them an eddy of leaves, lifted their umbrella. They turned their backs to the blast, saw the watchers at the window, and waved. They seemed to the two old creatures as vivid as a burst of sunshine against the dun dreariness of the day.
"Were we ever like that, Olivia?"
"Never, but Elizabeth was."
They had supper to cook and went about it. The rooms were dark, and they lighted the lamps.
"I hope they're not getting wet," Aunt Catherine said, as she drew the curtains.
Aunt Olivia was arranging flowers in a bowl. Crispin had brought roses to Hildegarde—little saffron ones.
"Merry gave you violets, and so did Bobby," he had said, "but I remembered the old yellow rosebush by the gate."
"They were always Hildegarde's favorites," Aunt Catherine remarked now as she set the bowl in the center of the table, "and they were Elizabeth's. She liked them in this bowl, because it was blue."
The table looked really very festive. There were, to be sure, no silver pheasants, no Florentine lace, but the linen was spick and span, and the roses helped. The two aunts surveyed it with satisfaction. Then they went into the kitchen.
