“Why can’t you get in, Mr. Vancouver?” inquired Miss Schenectady, when she and Joe were at last packed into the deep booby. It was simply a form of invitation. There was no reason why Mr. Vancouver should not get in, and with a word of thanks he did so. Ten minutes later the three were seated round the fire in Miss Schenectady’s drawing-room.
“It was very fine, was it not, Miss Thorn?” said Vancouver.
“Yes,” said Joe, staring at the fire.
“There are some people,” said Miss Schenectady, “it does not seem to make much difference what they say, but it is always fine.”
“Is that ironical?” asked Vancouver.
“Why, goodness gracious no! Of course not! I am John Harrington’s very best friend. I only mean to say.”
“What, Aunt Zoë?” inquired Joe, not yet altogether accustomed to the peculiar implications of her aunt’s language.
“Why, what I said, of course; it sounds very fine.”
“Then you do not believe it all?” asked Vancouver.
“I don’t understand politics,” said the old lady. “You might ring the bell, Joe, and ask Sarah for some tea.”