“I say, Tony, this is evidently Aunt Maxwell's own drawing-room. It has all the peculiar grimness of an old lady's sanctum; and I declare that fat old dog, snoring away on the rug, looks like a relation.” While he stooped down to examine the creature more closely, the door opened, and Mrs. Maxwell, dressed in bonnet and shawl, and with a small garden watering-pot in her hand, entered. She only saw Tony; and, running towards him with her open hand, said, “You naughty boy, did n't I tell you not to come here?”
Tony blushed deeply, and blurted something about being told or ordered to come by Mrs. Trafford.
“Well, well; it does n't matter now; there 's no danger. It's not 'catching,' the doctor says, and she'll be up tomorrow. Dear me! and who is this?” The latter question was addressed to Skeffy, who had just risen from his knees.
“Mr. Skeffington Darner, ma'am,” said Tony.
“And who are you, then?”
“Tony Butler: I thought you knew me.”
“To be sure I do, and delighted to see you too. And this Pickle is Skeff, is he?”
“Dear aunt, let me embrace you,” cried Skeffy, rushing rapturously into her arms.
“Well, I declare!” said the old lady, looking from one to the other; “I thought, if it was you, Skeff, what a great fine tall man you had grown; and there you are, the same little creature I saw you last.”
“Little, aunt! what do you mean by little? Standard of the Line! In France I should be a Grenadier!”