The normal area of the colour upon each of them decreased perceptibly after that slow and emphatic utterance by the elder lady.
Miss Aldclyffe continued impressively, 'You did not say "Old Christmas Eve" as a fiancee should have said the words: and you don't receive my remark with the warm excitement that foreshadows a bright future. . . . How many weeks are there to the time?' 'I have not reckoned them.' 'Not? Fancy a girl not counting the weeks! I find I must take the lead in this matter--you are so childish, or frightened, or stupid, or something, about it. Bring me my diary, and we will count them at once.' Cytherea silently fetched the book.
Miss Aldclyffe opened the diary at the page containing the almanac, and counted sixteen weeks, which brought her to the thirty-first of December--a Sunday. Cytherea stood by, looking on as if she had no appetite for the scene.
'Sixteen to the thirty-first. Then let me see, Monday will be the first of January, Tuesday the second, Wednesday third, Thursday fourth, Friday fifth--you have chosen a Friday, as I declare!' 'A Thursday, surely?' said Cytherea.
'No: Old Christmas Day comes on a Saturday.' The perturbed little brain had reckoned wrong. 'Well, it must be a Friday,' she murmured in a reverie.
'No: have it altered, of course,' said Miss Aldclyffe cheerfully.
'There's nothing bad in Friday, but such a creature as you will be thinking about its being unlucky--in fact, I wouldn't choose a Friday myself to be married on, since all the other days are equally available.' 'I shall not have it altered,' said Cytherea firmly; 'it has been altered once already: I shall let it be.'