"What! ask the Vicar's wife!" Gladys ejaculated, "when I never go to church."
"Certainly," Miss Templeton replied, laughing again, "Mrs. Sprat will quite understand. And I've always been told she is very interested in anything to do with the Occult. But hush! Here's your father. You'd better not tell him your dream. He's tired to death, he says, of hearing about your lovers, and agrees with me—there's no end to them."
"Never mind what he says—his bark's worse then his bite," Gladys rejoined, "he doesn't really care how many I have so long as they keep within bounds, and I like them! Father!"
John Martin, who entered the room at that moment, went straight to his daughter to be kissed.
"I wish you wouldn't always select that bald spot," he said testily, "I don't want to be everlastingly reminded I'm losing my hair."
"Where do you want me to kiss you, then?" Gladys argued, "on the tip of your nose? That's all very well for you, John Martin, but I prefer the top of your head. But the poor dear looks worried, what is it?"
"I didn't have a very good night," her father replied, "I dreamed a lot!" Gladys looked at Miss Templeton and laughed.
"Did you?" she said gently. "What a shame! I never dream. What was it all about?"
"Flowers!" John Martin snapped, "idiotic flowers! Roses, lilac, tulips! Bah! I do wish you would have some other hobby."
Gladys looked at her aunt again, this time with a half serious, half questioning expression.