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Aunt Emmy dropped her eyes.

“You mean, where I shall live,” she said faintly.

“Just so. Just so. You speak like a sensible woman. We must not forget you.” Uncle Tom was becoming visibly uneasy. “And I may as well tell you now, old girl–prepare your mind beforehand, don’t you know–that the governor has not been able to leave you as much as he wished, as we both wished. The truth is, what with one thing and another, and nearly all his capital tied up in the business, and this house on a long lease and expensive to keep up, with the best will in the world the poor old pater can’t do much for you.”

“It will be enough,” said Aunt Emmy.

“It will be the interest of seven thousand pounds at three and a half per cent.,” said Uncle Tom brutally, because he was uncomfortable, “about two hundred and thirty pounds a year.”

“It will be ample,” said Aunt Emmy. I knew by the faint colour in her cheeks that the conversation was odious to her. “Dear Tom, let us talk of something else.”

“We will,” said Uncle Tom, with unexpected mental agility, and with the obvious relief of a man who has got safely round a difficult corner. “We will. Now, how about Colonel Stoddart?”

My heart beat suddenly. I was beginning to see life–at last.

“There is nothing to say about him,” said Aunt Emmy.

“A good chap, and a gentlemanly chap,” said Uncle Tom urbanely, leaning back in his chair. “Eton, the ‘varsity, and all that sort of thing. Quite one of ourselves. Old family, and a warm man. And suitable in age. My age. Thirty-nine. (Uncle Tom was really forty-one.) You’re no chicken yourself, you know, Emmy. Thirty-eight, though I own you don’t look it, my dear. Well, what’s the matter with Colonel Stoddart, I should like to know?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, for he tells me you refused him again only last week. Now, look here. One moment, please. Don’t speak. I call it Providence, downright Providence,” and Uncle Tom rapped the table with a thick finger. “And yet you won’t look at him. I don’t say marry him out of hand. Of course,” Uncle Tom added hurriedly, “you can’t leave the old pater while he is above ground. There’s no question of that. But I do say, Give the fellow a chance. He’s been dangling after you for years. Tell him that some day—-“

Aunt Emmy rose from the table, and laid down her napkin.

“Now, look here, old girl,” said Uncle Tom, not unkindly, “don’t get your feathers up with me. Think better of it. You know this sort of first-class opportunity may not occur again. It really may not. If it isn’t Providence, I’m sure I don’t know what it is. And I believe your only reason for refusing him is because of Bob Kingston. Now, don’t fly in the face of Providence just out of a bit of rotten sentiment which you ought to be ashamed of at your age.”

My brain reeled. I had never heard of Bob Kingston. I said “Good God!” to myself, not because it was natural to me to use such an expression, but because I felt it was suitable to the occasion and to a person whose hair was done up.

“Tom,” said Aunt Emmy, her soft eyes blazing, “I desire that you will never allude to Mr. Kingston again.”

She left the room, and I did the same, with what I hope was a withering glance at the open-mouthed Uncle Tom, who for days afterwards interlarded his conversation with the refrain that he was blessed if he could understand women.

But I dared not follow Aunt Emmy to her little sitting-room at the top of the house. She who was almost never alone, clung, I knew, to that tiny refuge, and it was an understood thing between us that I might creep in and sit with her a little after tea, but not before.