Yes, they said, Aunt Lavinia had just come, but she said they
need not stop, for she could go in by herself.
There was no one in the hall, sitting room, den, or upstairs, neither had
Effie seen any person enter. Thinking I heard voices in the direction of
father's office, I went there and through to the library "annex," where
an unexpected picture met my gaze. Martin Cortright, the precise, in
stocking feet, skull cap, and dressing gown, perched on top of the
step-ladder, was clutching a book in one hand, within the other he held
Miss Lavinia's slender fingers in greeting, while his face had a curious
expression of surprise, pleasure, and a wild desire to regain his
slippers that were down on the floor, a combination that made him look
extremely foolish as well as "pudgy."
Up to that moment, Miss Lavinia, who cannot distinguish a face three
feet away without her lorgnette, thought she was speaking to father.
Under cover of our mutual hilarity, I led her back to a seat in the
study, so that Martin might recover his wits, coat, and slippers at the
same time, for Miss Lavinia had stumbled over the latter and sent them
coasting in different directions.
Yes, the postmistress was right, Lavinia Dorman had a new bonnet. Not the
customary conservative but monotonous upholstered affair of jet and lace,
but a handful of pink roses in a tulle nest, held on by wisps of tulle
instead of ribbons.
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