"Oh, Sylvia's all right," said Savile, impartially declining the fruit and producing an aluminium cigarette-case. Aunt William, pretending not to see it, passed him the matches as if in a fit of absence of mind. As a matter of fact, Savile was really more at home with Aunt William than with any one, even his sisters.
"And now, my dear boy, tell me about yourself."
Savile took out of his pocket the envelope containing her photograph.
"I say, I took this out of the album last time I came," he said apologetically.
Aunt William almost blushed. She was genuinely flattered.
"But what's that—that green book I see in your pocket? I suppose it's Euclid, or Greek, or something you're learning."
"No, it's not; it's poetry. A ripping poem I've just found out. I know you like that sort of rot, so I brought it for you."
Her face softened. Savile was the only person who knew her romantic side.
"A poem!" she said in a lowered voice. "Oh, what is it about?"
"Oh, about irises, and how 'In the Spring a Young Man's Fancy,' that sort of thing—Tennyson, you know."