“I consider,” said Mary, as Aunt Frances paused, “that the Gentleman’s Library part was an inspiration.  It was the bait at which they all nibbled.”

The General chuckled, “She’ll do.  Let her have her own way, Frances.  She’s got a head on her like a man’s.”

Aunt Frances turned on him.  “Mary speaks what is to me a rather new language of independence.  And she can’t stay here alone.  She can’t.  It isn’t proper—­without an older woman in the house.”

“But I want an older woman.  Oh, Aunt Frances, please, may I have Aunt Isabelle?”

She had raised her voice so that Aunt Isabelle caught the name.  “What does she want, Frances?” asked the deaf woman; “what does she want?”

“She wants you to live with her—­here.”  Aunt Frances was thinking rapidly; it wasn’t such a bad plan.  It was always a problem to take Isabelle when she and her daughter traveled.  And if they left her in New York there was always the haunting fear that she might be ill, or that they might be criticized for leaving her.

“Mary wants you to live with her,” she said, “While we are abroad, would you like it—­a winter in Washington?”

Aunt Isabelle’s gentle face was illumined.  “Do you really want me, my dear?” she asked in her hushed voice.  It had been a long time since Aunt Isabelle had felt that she was wanted anywhere.  It seemed to her that since the illness which had sent her into a world of silence, that her presence had been endured, not coveted.

Mary came over and put her arms about her.  “Will you, Aunt Isabelle?” she asked.  “I shall miss Constance so, and it would almost be like having mother to have—­you——­”

No one knew how madly the hungry heart was beating under the silver-gray gown.  Aunt Isabella was only forty-eight, twelve years younger than her sister Frances, but she had faded and drooped, while Frances had stood up like a strong flower on its stem.  And the little faded drooping lady yearned for tenderness, was starved for it, and here was Mary in her youth and beauty, promising it.

“I want you so much, and Barry wants you—­and Susan Jenks——­”

She was laughing tremulously, and Aunt Isabelle laughed too, holding on to herself, so that she might not show in face or gesture the wildness of her joy.

“You won’t mind, will you, Frances?” she asked.

Aunt Frances rose and shook out her amber skirts “I shall of course be much disappointed,” she pitched her voice high and spoke with chill stateliness, “I shall be very much disappointed that neither you nor Mary will be with us for the winter.  And I shall have to cross alone.  But Grace can meet me in London.  She’s going there to see Constance, and I shall stay for a while and start the young people socially.  I should think you’d want to see Constance, Mary.”

Mary drew a quick breath.  “I do want to see her—­but I have to think about Barry—­and for this winter, at least, my place—­is here.”