"That's right, my dear," Mrs. Grey said cordially, "you're my sensible little daughter again, I see. We shall not be separated quite yet—"
"When will it be, mother?" Mavis broke in.
"In about a fortnight, I think. Mr. Dawson asked me if I could be ready by then, and I told him I could. Of course, if your uncle and aunt decline to have you at W—, I must arrange for you to remain with Miss Tompkins, but I would rather leave you with relatives. I've never been to W—, but I believe it's a very pretty place; the nearest railway-station is Oxford. Perhaps I may take you to W— myself."
"Oh, mother, I hope you will."
"We shall see."
Mrs. Grey rose as she spoke, lit the gas, and pulled down the blind. Then she took up the letter she had written, and remarked, "It may as well go to-night. I will put on my bonnet and cloak and post it. You may come with me, if you like, Mavis, and we will have a look at the shops."
"Oh yes," Mavis agreed, readily.
Accordingly, mother and daughter went out together. Mrs. Grey posted her letter at the first pillar-box they passed. And a few minutes later, they turned from the dingy street in which their home was situated, into a wider thoroughfare lined on either side with fine shops, brilliantly illuminated with electric light.
Mavis amused herself, for a while, by pointing out to her mother the various articles she would like to buy, and it did not trouble her that she could not purchase any of them, for she was a contented little soul who had never fretted at poverty. But by-and-by, she grew silent, and her interest in her surroundings commenced to flag.
"Shall we go home, now?" suggested Mrs. Grey, thinking the child was getting tired.