grandmothers in, everything was over but the precise terms of surrender. She could see them all around her—the dear, dead ladies of New Moon—Mary Shipley and Elizabeth Burnley and all the rest—mild, determined, restrained, looking down with something of contemptuous pity on her, their foolish, impulsive descendant. Cousin Jimmy appeared to think there might be some weakness on the Starr side. Well, there wasn’t—she would show him!
She had expected more sympathy from Cousin Jimmy. She had known Aunt Elizabeth would condemn her and even Aunt Laura would look disappointed question. But she had counted on Cousin Jimmy taking her part. He always had before.
“My grandmothers never had to put up with Aunt Ruth,” she flung at him.
“They had to put up with your grandfathers.” Cousin Jimmy appeared to think that this was conclusive—as any one who had known Archibald and Hugh Murray might have very well thought.
“Cousin Jimmy, do you think I ought to go back and accept Aunt Ruth’s scolding and go on as if this had never happened?”
“What do you think about it?” asked Cousin Jimmy. “Do take a doughnut, pussy.”
This time Emily took the doughnut. She might as well have some comfort. Now, you can’t eat doughnuts and remain dramatic. Try it.
Emily slipped from her peak of tragedy to the valley of petulance.
“Aunt Ruth has been abominable these past two months—ever since her bronchitis has prevented her from going out. You don’t know what it’s been like.”
“Oh, I do—I do. Ruth Dutton never made any one feel better pleased with herself. Feet getting warm, Emily?”
“I hate her,” cried Emily, still grasping after self-jus-
