“No, just talking to Mary,” Hannah said. “I guess it can’t be so very serious, after all.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Andrew, and went back to his painting.
Hannah made herself ready for town. When Rufus arrived, all out of breath, he found her on a hard little couch in the living room, sitting carefully, not to rumple her long white-speckled black dress, and poring gravely through an issue of The Nation which she held a finger length before her thick glasses.
“Well,” she smiled, putting the magazine immediately aside. “You’re very prompt” (he was not; his mother had required him to wash and change his clothes) “and” (peering at him closely as he hurried up) “you look very nice. But you’re all out of breath. Would you really like to come?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, with a trace of falseness, for he had been warned to convince her; “I’m very glad to come, Aunt Hannah, and thank you very much for thinking of me.”
“Huh…” she said, for she knew direct quotation when she heard it, but she was also convinced that in spite of the false words, he really meant it. “That’s very nice,” she said. “Very well; let’s be on our way.” She took her hard, plain black straw hat from its place on the sofa beside her and Rufus followed her to the mirror in the dark hallway and watched her careful planting of the hat pin. “Dark as the inside of a cow,” she muttered, almost nosing the somber mirror, “as your grandfather would say.” Rufus tried to imagine what it would be like, inside a cow. It would certainly be dark, but then it would be dark inside anybody or anything, so why a cow? Grandma came prowling dim-sightedly up the hallway from the dining room, smiling fixedly, even though she fancied she was alone, and the little boy and his great-aunt drew quickly aside, but even so, she collided, and gasped.
“Hello, Grandma, it’s me,” Rufus shrilled, and his aunt
