When Miss Stellenthorpe's visit became due, Lily said to her husband:
"Am I to say anything to Miss Dickenson about going away?"
"Why?" said Nicholas, looking astounded.
"I thought she was only staying till Aunt Clo arrived; and Aunt Go will be here to-morrow."
"Oh well—it isn't a sort of Box and Cox arrangement, is it? There's plenty of room for them both. Just as you like, my dear, of course—but your aunt might feel freer if you still had your regular nurse at your beck and call. Besides, she's a nice girl—a nice girl, and a plucky one. You'd be sorry to lose her."
To the daughter of Philip and Eleanor Stellenthorpe it was almost an impossibility to cut across that kind, well-pleased statement with a wounding contradiction.
Lily's spirit sought the familiar refuge of the weak, a feeble and unconvinced optimism. "Perhaps Doris will go of herself, when Aunt Clo is here."
To a certain extent, the half-hearted prediction was verified, although the eventual departure of Doris Dickenson was not, perhaps, entirely a matter of free-will.
"Bambina!" said Miss Stellenthorpe, less than a week after her arrival, with even more than her habitual emphasis of diction. "Bambina mia! How can this be?"
"What?"