"Well, maybe so. Marjory, can't I help you to a little more of the lamb?"
"No, no," protested his sister-in-law. "I'm doing famously."
"Alf, Marjie will have some more potatoes, I'm sure."
"No. Doing famously. Never mind my plate, but do let's get it straight about the Goodmans. Thanks, Hilda, I will have another biscuit. It all sounds terribly romantic!"
"Yes, it is," Hilda boldly assured her. "They always kiss right before everybody on their anniversary. And in the morning—"
"Hilda!" cautioned her father, rather sternly.
The girl endeavoured to conceal her confusion by addressing herself very elaborately to the spreading of a biscuit.
"Oh, now, Alfred," remonstrated his sister-in-law, "you're worse than a war censor! Since it's quite apparent the whole Point knows about the kissing—Anna, may I trouble you for another glass of water?—why shouldn't I be admitted to so very large a secret? There's surely room for one more, and you may pledge me to profound secrecy if you like. I'm dying to know what it is they do in the morning!"
Hilda was gaining back her nerve. "They run away and have breakfast together at the hotel! That's what they do, Aunt Marjie!"
"Oh, how charming!"