and wore black. She was small and slight, and the black was made smart
by touches of white crepe. Aunt Claudia had not forgotten that she had
been a belle in Richmond. She was a stately little woman with a firm
conviction of the necessity of maintaining dignified standards of
living. She was in no sense a snob. But she held that women of birth and
breeding must preserve the fastidiousness of their ideals, lest there be
social chaos.

"There would be no ladies left in the world," she often told Becky, "if
we older women went at the modern pace."

Becky, in contrast to Aunt Claudia's smartness, showed up rather
ingloriously. She wore the stubbed russet shoes, a not too fresh cotton
frock of pale yellow, and a brown straw sailor.

"You might at least have stopped to change your shoes," Aunt Claudia
told her, as they left the house behind.

"I was out with Randy and the dogs. It was heavenly, Aunt Claudia."

"My dear, if a walk with Randy is heavenly, what will you call Heaven
when you get to it?"

They drove through the first gate, and Calvin climbed down to open it.
Beyond the gate the road descended gradually through an open pasture,
where sheep grazed on the hillside or lay at rest in the shade. The
bells of the leaders tinkled faintly, the ewes and the lambs were
calling. Beyond the big gate, the highroad was washed with the recent
rains. From the gate to the club was a matter of five miles, and the
bays ate up the distance easily.