“I’m not!” protested Isabel. “I’m not at all. I’m sure you’ll be very happy—” Her voice trailed off a trifle lamely.
“We’re going around the world on our honeymoon,” said Muriel. “We won’t be back for a year.”
A honeymoon, thought Jane. A honeymoon for Muriel, who was her own contemporary. It was absurd, of course, but it was touching, too. It was touching to think that anyone could have the courage to believe that life could begin over again at fifty. Love at fifty. It tired Jane to think of it. But perhaps it was possible. Autumn blossoming. A freak of nature, like the flowers of the witch-hazel, bursting weirdly into bloom in October when all the other bushes were bare. But—Ed Brown.
“Have you written Albert?” asked Isabel.
“I cabled him Saturday,” said Muriel, The familiar glint of shameless curiosity glittered in Isabel’s eye. “He was very much pleased,” said Muriel with dignity.
“Of course,” said Jane hastily. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Will he come back for the wedding?” asked Isabel suddenly. “Will be bring Belle?”
“They’re both coming,” said Muriel, smiling. “And bringing the children.”
“You should have them for flower girls,” said Isabel wickedly.
“Ed has grandchildren, too,” said Muriel blandly. Jane felt the spectral presences of Pearl and Gertie hover for an instant in the circumambient air. But Isabel, thank Heaven, was obviously not going to refer to them. “I’m going to have such fun, Jane,” went on Muriel, “buying a trousseau. I’m going to be very foolish. I’m going in for black chiffon nightgowns and I saw a negligee last week at Castberg’s—”
A sudden shuffle, a sound of suppressed laughter, broke in upon their colloquy from the hall. Jane looked up quickly. She had not heard the doorbell ring. A tiny red-sweatered figure stood, tottering, in the doorway.
“Happy birfday, Granma!” it cried and staggering across the room fell tottering across Jane’s knees. It was Robin Redbreast, her youngest grandchild.
“Magnificent!” cried Cicily’s voice.
The twins appeared in the doorway. Tripping on rugs, slipping on the hardwood floor, they dashed across the living-room and cast themselves on Jane’s neck.
“Happy birthday, Grandma!” they repeated.
Cicily stood on the threshold. She looked extremely pretty in a rose-coloured sport suit and immensely amused at her offspring’s dramatic entrance.
“Hello, Mumsy!” she cried. “Happy birthday again Hello, Aunt Isabel! I thought you’d be here. How do you do, Aunt Muriel?”
“Don’t tell her,” whispered Muriel. “Don’t tell her until I’ve gone.” She rose as she spoke. Untangling herself from the arms of grandchildren, Jane walked with her to the door.
“I do feel a little silly,” confessed Muriel in the hall, “in the presence of Albert’s contemporaries.”
“Nonsense!” said Jane stoutly. Though she could not imagine what her own feelings would be if she had to announce her prospective marriage to Cicily. She kissed Muriel tenderly and returned to the living-room. Isabel had wasted no time. Cicily, standing on the hearthrug, was facing her mother-in-law in shocked, derisive incredulity.
“Oh, I don’t believe it!” she was saying.
“It’s true!” cried Isabel. “It’s perfectly true!”
“You’re kidding me,” said Cicily.
“I’m not!” cried Isabel. “Ask your mother!”
“It’s true,” said Jane soberly.
“Aunt Muriel—is going to marry—Ed Brown?”
Jane nodded solemnly.
“My Gawd!” said Cicily profanely. Then, “How absurd!”
“Why is it absurd?” inquired Jane a trifle sharply. She sat down again at the tea-table and removed Robin Redbreast’s fingers from the sugar-bowl.
“It’s so undignified,” said Cicily promptly. “If Aunt Muriel wanted to marry again, why didn’t she do it years ago?”
“My dear,” said Jane gently, “her husband was living.”
“If you call it living,” said Cicily cheerfully. She had appropriated Robin Redbreast and was removing his scarlet sweater. Little Jane was already seated on Isabel’s knee. Jane put her arm around John and drew him gently to her. She leaned her cheek against the embroidered chevron on the sleeve of his navy-blue reefer. The twins looked exactly alike, brown-eyed and solemn and very like their great-grandfather. Their souls were different, however. Matter-of-fact and matter-of-fancy, Jane always called them. John’s soul was matter-of-fancy. He was a lovely, imaginative little boy. His big brown eyes looked up at her wistfully. There was nothing in the world more endearing, Jane reflected tenderly, than the freckles on an eight-year-old nose!
But Cicily was still intrigued with the problems of her Aunt Muriel.
“I should think she would have fallen in love with someone else long since,” she said.
Jane’s eyes met Isabel’s. She hoped her sister was going to restrain herself. The hope was vain, however.
“She’s been falling in love with someone else every six months for the last thirty years,” said Isabel shortly.
“Why didn’t she walk out on Uncle Bert, then?” asked Cicily lightly. “Why didn’t she get a divorce?”
Jane glanced uneasily at the twins. Eight-year-old children were very understanding. Cicily never seemed to care what she said in their hearing.
“The Lesters are a very conventional family,” she said gravely. “I’m sure your Aunt Muriel never thought of divorce. Not even before Uncle Bert’s stroke.”
“Why not?” asked Cicily again.
“She had Albert to consider,” said Isabel.
“Albert?” cried Cicily. Her voice was greatly astonished. “What had Albert to do with it?”
“It would have broken up his home,” said Isabel, a trifle sententiously.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cicily. “He might have drawn a very good stepfather.”
“Men who love married women,” said Isabel with asperity, “don’t make very good stepfathers.”
Cicily looked up at her with interest. Robin Redbreast slid from her knees to the floor.
“Do you mean she really had lovers?”
Isabel did not reply. In her turn, she glanced a little uneasily at the twins. Her silence was very eloquent.
“How stupid of her!” said Cicily. “A woman who takes a lover is always the underdog.”
“Your Aunt Muriel wasn’t,” said Isabel. “There was always a good deal of talk, of course, but she managed things very cleverly.”
“I don’t believe in promiscuity,” said Cicily firmly.
“Cicily!” cried Isabel sharply. “What words you use! At your
