"Is that very long ago?" asks Lilian, and her manner is so naïve that they all smile.
"She came here——" begins Lady Chetwoode.
"She came here," interrupts Cyril, impressively, "precisely five years ago. Have you mastered that date? If so, cling to it, get it by heart, never lose sight of it. Once, about a month ago, before she left us to go to those good-natured people in Shropshire, I told her, quite accidentally, I thought she came here nine years ago. She was very angry, and I then learned that Florence angry wasn't nice, and that a little of her in that state went a long way. I also learned that she came here five years ago."
"Am I to understand," asks Lilian, laughing, "that she is twenty-six?"
"My dear Lilian, I do hope you are not 'obtoose.' Has all my valuable information been thrown away? I have all this time been trying to impress upon you the fact that Florence is only twenty-two, but it is evidently 'love's labor lost.' Now do try to comprehend. She was twenty-two last year, she is twenty-two this year, and I am almost positive that this time next year she will be twenty-two again!"
"Cyril, don't be severe," says his mother.
"Dearest mother, how can you accuse me of such a thing? Is it severe to say Florence is still young and lovely?"
"Do you and Florence like each other?" asks Lilian.
"Not too much. I am not staid enough for Florence. She says she likes earnest people,—like Guy."
"Ah!" says Lilian.