But Aunt Lucretia came, all the same.  My wife is afflicted with a New England conscience, originally of a most uncomfortable character.  It has been much modified and ameliorated, until it is now considerably less like a case of moral hives; but some wretched lingering remnant of the original article induced her to write to Aunt Lucretia that Uncle David was staying with us, and of course Aunt Lucretia came without invitation and without warning, dropping in on us with ruthless unexpectedness.

You may not think, from what I have said, that Aunt Lucretia’s visit was a pleasant event.  But it was, in some respects; for it was not only the shortest visit she ever paid us, but it was the last with which she ever honored us.

She arrived one morning shortly after breakfast, just as we were preparing to go out for a drive.  She would not have been Aunt Lucretia if she had not upset somebody’s calculations at every turn of her existence.  We welcomed her with as much hypocrisy as we could summon to our aid on short notice, and she was not more than usually offensive, although she certainly did herself full justice in telling us what she thought of us for not inviting her as soon as we even heard of Uncle David’s intention to return to his native land.  She said she ought to have been the first to embrace her beloved brother—­to whom I don’t believe she had given one thought in more years than I have yet seen.

Uncle David was dressing for his drive.  His long residence in tropical countries had rendered him sensitive to the cold, and although it was a fine, clear September day, with the thermometer at about sixty, he was industriously building himself up with a series of overcoats.  On a really snappy day I have known him to get into six of these garments; and when he entered the room on this occasion I think he had on five, at least.

My wife had heard his familiar foot on the stairs, and Aunt Lucretia had risen up and braced herself for an outburst of emotional affection.  I could see that it was going to be such a greeting as is given only once in two or three centuries, and then on the stage.  I felt sure it would end in a swoon, and I was looking around for a sofa-pillow for the old lady to fall upon, for from what I knew of Aunt Lucretia I did not believe she had ever swooned enough to be able to go through the performance without danger to her aged person.  But I need not have troubled myself.  Uncle David toddled into the room, gazed at Aunt Lucretia without a sign of recognition in his features, and toddled out into the hall, where he got his hat and gloves, and went out to the front lawn, where he always paced up and down for a few minutes before taking a drive, in order to stimulate his circulation.  This was a surprise, but Aunt Lucretia’s behavior was a greater surprise.  The moment she set eyes on Uncle David the theatrical fervor went out of her entire system, literally in one instant; and an absolutely natural, unaffected astonishment displayed itself in her expressive and strongly marked features.  For almost a minute, until the sound of Uncle David’s footsteps had died away, she stood absolutely rigid; while my wife and I gazed at her spellbound.