Savile (thinking this encouragement rather meagre) replaced the poem and said: "I shall have to be going now, Aunt William. Got an appointment."
"With whom, my dear?"
"Yes," said Savile dryly. He did not approve of this direct method of ascertaining what one wants to know. He would confide, but never answered questions. She accepted the hint, but would not acknowledge it.
"Ah, I see!" she said knowingly (wishing she did). "Well, if you must go, you must!"
"Yes, Aunt William."
"But before you go, about that party ... I'm coming, of course. In fact, I'm having my peach brocade done up. Tell dear Sylvia that if there's anything I can do—I mean in the way of helping her with regard to the supper——"
"We've telephoned to Benoist's. It's all fixed up. Thanks very much."
"Oh! But still I think I'll send my recipe for salmon mayonnaise. Don't you think I might?"
"It can't do any harm, when you come to think of it," he answered, getting up.
Before he left, Aunt William pressed a sovereign into his hand guiltily, as if it were conscience money. He, on his side, took it as though it were a doctor's fee, and both ignored the transaction.