little
laugh. "You sweet, funny creature," she said. "I can make you blush,
looking at you, as if I were a man. Well, maybe I love you as well as
one." Lucy took the bowl of candy from the bench and extended it to
Rose. "Do have some candy," said she.

"Thank you," said Rose. She looked bewildered, and felt so. She took
a sugared almond and began nibbling at it. "Aren't you going to eat
any candy yourself?" said she.

"I have eaten so much already that it has made my head ache," replied
Lucy. "Is it good?"

"Simply delicious. You must teach me how you make such candy."

"Lucy will be glad to teach you any day," said Mrs. Ayres's voice.
She had come swiftly upon them, and entered the arbor with a
religious newspaper in her hand. Lucy no longer seemed annoyed by her
mother's following her. She only set the candy behind her with a
quick movement which puzzled Rose.

"Aren't you going to offer your mother some?" she asked, laughing.

"Mother can't eat candy. Dr. Wallace has forbidden it," Lucy said,
quickly.

"Yes, that is quite true," assented Mrs. Ayres. She began reading her
paper. Lucy offered the bowl again to Rose, who took a bonbon. She
was just swallowing it when Horace Allen appeared. He made a motion
which did not escape Mrs. Ayres. She rose and confronted him with
perfect calmness and dignity. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Allen," she said.

Lucy had sprung up quickly. She was very white. Horace said
good-afternoon perfunctorily, and looked at Rose.

Mrs. Ayres caught up the bowl of candy. "Let me offer you some, Mr.
Allen," she said. "It is home-made candy, and quite harmless, I
assure you."

Her fair, elderly face confronted him smilingly, her voice was calm.

"Thank you," said Horace, and took a sugared almond.

Lucy made a movement as if to stop him, but her mother laid her hand
with gentle firmness on her arm. "Sit down, Lucy," she said, and Lucy
sat down.

Chapter XII

Henry Whitman and his wife Sylvia remained, the one reading his
Sunday paper, the other her book, while Horace and Rose were away.
Henry's paper rustled, Sylvia turned pages gently. Occasionally she
smiled the self-satisfied smile of the reader who thinks she
understands the author, to her own credit. Henry scowled over his
paper the scowl of one who reads to disapprove, to his own credit.

Both were quite engrossed. Sylvia had reached an extremely
interesting portion of her book, and Henry was reading a section of
his paper