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“But he is older than you, isn’t he?”

“Two years. What is two years! We were the same age when we were young. But a man of forty-six is younger than a woman of forty-four.”

I was silent. There was no contradicting that obvious fact.

“He will probably come by the 4.12 train,” said Aunt Emmy, rising. “If you don’t mind, as there are so many preparations to make, I will leave you to finish your breakfast. I have had mine.”

She left the room, and I stared at her empty plate. I was not hungry either. I was frightened for my dear Aunt Emmy.

And yet, she was so yielding, so selfless, so absolutely uncritical, that if any woman could marry late she was the woman. She could have lived with a monster of egotism without finding it out. Had she not devoted herself to two such monsters most of her life? And perhaps Mr. Kingston was not a monster. Aunt Emmy arranged the flowers early as she only could arrange them. I was only allowed to fetch the water and clean the glasses. A certain pony-cart was sent to Muddington with the cook in it to buy a tongue, and a Stilton cheese, and a little barrel of anchovies, and various other condiments which Uncle Tom approved. Uncle Tom’s tastes represented those of his whole sex for Aunt Emmy.

I insisted on her eating some luncheon, but this was barely possible, as in the midst of it a telegram was brought in from Mr. Kingston to say he should arrive by the 4.12 train.

After luncheon Aunt Emmy went to her room. I followed her there half an hour later to give her a note, and found her standing in the middle of the floor, looking at all her gowns laid out on chairs.

“I am afraid you can only think me very silly, my dear,” she said, with a sort of humble dignity. “I wished to consult you, but I did not like to; but as you are here, and if you don’t mind my asking you–a relation can often judge best what is advantageous–which gown do you think suits me best, the grey voile, or the lilac delaine, or the white serge?”

I decided on the white serge, and long before the dogcart ordered to meet him could possibly arrive, Aunt Emmy was sitting, paler than I had ever seen her, beside a wood fire in the parlour in the soft white gown I loved her best in, pretending to read. She had lit the fire, though we were not in the habit of having it till later in the day, because she thought Australians might feel chilly.

“I don’t know how it is,” she said at last, laying down the book, “but I seem quite blind. I can’t see the print.”

I could not see the needle-work I was bending over either. But that was because senseless tears kept on rising to my eyes, do what I would. Aunt Emmy’s eyes had no tears in them.

“It is very petty of me, I know, but I do hope he has not grown stout,” she said presently. “But of course it is to be expected, and if it is so I must try to bear it. It could not make any real difference. Your Uncle Tom is the same age, and of course he is not–he really is not as thin as he was.”

“Was he ever thin?”

“N-no. But Mr. Kingston was, at least, not thin, but very spare and agile-looking.”

At last the sound of wheels reached us. Aunt Emmy clasped the arms of her chair convulsively.

“I daresay he has not come,” she said almost inaudibly.

The wheels stopped. I went into the tiny hall.

A tall, spare, distinguished-looking man, with weather-beaten face and peculiarly intent, hawklike eyes, was at the gate, and I went out to greet him. As he took off his cap his crisp hair showed a little grey in it. He was delightful to look at.