"Lady Chetwoode," says Lilian, with soft hesitation, "I want to ask you a question."
"Do you, dear? Then ask it."
"But it is a very odd question, and perhaps you will be angry."
"I don't think I shall," says Lady Chetwoode ("One, two, three, four," etc.)
"Well, then, I like you so much—I love you so much," corrects Lilian, earnestly, "that, if you don't mind, I should like to call you some name a little less formal than Lady Chetwoode. Do you mind?"
Her ladyship lays down her knitting and looks amused.
"It seems no one cares to give me my title," she says. "Mabel, my late ward, was hardly here three days when she made a request similar to yours. She always called me 'Auntie.' Florence calls me, of course, 'Aunt Anne;' but Mabel always called me 'Auntie.'"
"Ah! that was prettier. May I call you 'Auntie' too? 'Auntie Nannie,'—I think that a dear little name, and just suited to you."
"Call me anything you like, darling," says Lady Chetwoode, kissing the girl's soft, flushed cheek.
Here the door opens to admit Sir Guy and Cyril, who are driven to desperation and afternoon tea by the incivility of the weather.