It made the light banter impossible. Especially,
as there was no doubt that Rose did not seem anxious for it.
For Martin had not been the only member of that household who had
held early communion with himself. The girl had sat long and
dreamily at her dressing table--the dainty one of rich, dark
mahogany that Uncle Martin's thoughtfulness had provided. It
seemed unbelievable, but there was no use pretending she was
mistaken--Uncle Martin, Aunt Rose's husband, was falling in love
with her. She felt a little heady with the excitement of it. He
was so different from the callow youths and dapper fellows who
had heretofore worshipped at her shrine. There was something so
imposing, so important about him. She was conscious that a man so
much older might not appeal to many girls of her age, but it so
happened that he did appeal to her. She would be able to have
everything she wished, too--didn't she know how good, how kind,
how tender he could be. And her heart yearned toward him--he was
so clearly misunderstood, unhappy. But what about Aunt Rose?
Well, then, why had she let herself get to be so ugly? She looked
as if the greases of her own kitchen stove had cooked into her
skin, thought the girl, mercilessly. Didn't she know there was
such a thing as a powder puff? Women like that brought their own
troubles upon themselves, that's what they did. And she was an
old prude, too.
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