Chapter XIX

An Interlude

“To think that this is my twentieth birthday, and that I’ve left my

teens behind me forever,” said Anne, who was curled up on the

hearth-rug with Rusty in her lap, to Aunt Jamesina who was reading in

her pet chair. They were alone in the living room. Stella and Priscilla

had gone to a committee meeting and Phil was upstairs adorning herself

for a party.

“I suppose you feel kind of, sorry” said Aunt Jamesina. “The teens are

such a nice part of life. I’m glad I’ve never gone out of them myself.”

Anne laughed.

“You never will, Aunty. You’ll be eighteen when you should be a

hundred. Yes, I’m sorry, and a little dissatisfied as well. Miss Stacy

told me long ago that by the time I was twenty my character would be

formed, for good or evil. I don’t feel that it’s what it should be.

It’s full of flaws.”

“So’s everybody’s,” said Aunt Jamesina cheerfully. “Mine’s cracked in a

hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you are twenty

your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction or

’tother, and would go on developing in that line. Don’t worry over it,

Anne. Do your duty by God and your neighbor and yourself, and have a

good time. That’s my philosophy and it’s always worked pretty well.

Where’s Phil off to tonight?”

“She’s going to a dance, and she’s got the sweetest dress for it—creamy

yellow silk and cobwebby lace. It just suits those brown tints of

hers.”

“There’s magic in the words ‘silk’ and ‘lace,’ isn’t there?” said Aunt

Jamesina. “The very sound of them makes me feel like skipping off to a

dance. And _yellow_ silk. It makes one think of a dress of sunshine. I

always wanted a yellow silk dress, but first my mother and then my

husband wouldn’t hear of it. The very first thing I’m going to do when

I get to heaven is to get a yellow silk dress.”

Amid Anne’s peal of laughter Phil came downstairs, trailing clouds of

glory, and surveyed herself in the long oval mirror on the wall.

“A flattering looking glass is a promoter of amiability,” she said.

“The one in my room does certainly make me green. Do I look pretty

nice, Anne?”

“Do you really know how pretty you are, Phil?” asked Anne, in honest

admiration.

“Of course I do. What are looking glasses and men for? That wasn’t what

I meant. Are all my ends tucked in? Is my skirt straight? And would

this rose look better lower down? I’m afraid it’s too high—it will make

me look lop-sided. But I hate things tickling my ears.”

“Everything is just right, and that southwest dimple of yours is

lovely.”

“Anne, there’s one thing in particular I like about you—you’re so

ungrudging. There isn’t a particle of envy in you.”

“Why should she be envious?” demanded Aunt Jamesina. “She’s not quite

as goodlooking as you, maybe, but she’s got a far handsomer nose.”

“I know it,” conceded Phil.

“My nose always has been a great comfort to me,” confessed Anne.

“And I love the way your hair grows on your forehead, Anne. And that

one wee curl, always looking as if it were going to drop, but never

dropping, is delicious. But as for noses, mine is a dreadful worry to

me. I know by the time I’m forty it will be Byrney. What do you think

I’ll look like when I’m forty, Anne?”

“Like an old, matronly, married woman,” teased Anne.

“I won’t,” said Phil, sitting down comfortably to wait for her escort.

“Joseph, you calico beastie, don’t you dare jump on my lap. I won’t go

to a dance all over cat hairs. No, Anne, I _won’t_ look matronly. But

no doubt I’ll be married.”

“To Alec or Alonzo?” asked Anne.

“To one of them, I suppose,” sighed Phil, “if I can ever decide which.”

“It shouldn’t be hard to decide,” scolded Aunt Jamesina.

“I was born a see-saw Aunty, and nothing can ever prevent me from

teetering.”

“You ought to be more levelheaded, Philippa.”

“It’s best to be levelheaded, of course,” agreed Philippa, “but you

miss lots of fun. As for Alec and Alonzo, if you knew them you’d

understand why it’s difficult to choose between them. They’re equally

nice.”

“Then take somebody who is nicer” suggested Aunt Jamesina. “There’s

that Senior who is so devoted to you—Will Leslie. He has such nice,

large, mild eyes.”

“They’re a little bit too large and too mild—like a cow’s,” said Phil

cruelly.

“What do you say about George Parker?”

“There’s nothing to say about him except that he always looks as if he

had just been starched and ironed.”

“Marr Holworthy then. You can’t find a fault with him.”

“No, he would do if he wasn’t poor. I must marry a rich man, Aunt

Jamesina. That—and good looks—is an indispensable qualification. I’d

marry Gilbert Blythe if he were rich.”

“Oh, would you?” said Anne, rather viciously.

“We don’t like that idea a little bit, although we don’t want Gilbert

ourselves, oh, no,” mocked Phil. “But don’t let’s talk of disagreeable

subjects. I’ll have to marry sometime, I suppose, but I shall put off

the evil day as long as I can.”

“You mustn’t marry anybody you don’t love, Phil, when all’s said and

done,” said Aunt Jamesina.

“‘Oh, hearts that loved in the good old way

Have been out o’ the fashion this many a day.’”

trilled Phil mockingly. “There’s the carriage. I fly—Bi-bi, you two

old-fashioned darlings.”

When Phil had gone Aunt Jamesina looked solemnly at Anne.

“That girl is pretty and sweet and goodhearted, but do you think she is

quite right in her mind, by spells, Anne?”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s anything the matter with Phil’s mind,” said

Anne, hiding a smile. “It’s just her way of talking.”

Aunt Jamesina shook her head.

“Well, I hope so, Anne. I do hope so, because I love her. But _I_ can’t

understand her—she beats me. She isn’t like any of the girls I ever

knew, or any of the girls I was myself.”

“How many girls were you, Aunt Jimsie?”

“About half a dozen, my dear.”