“I've a good mind not to ask you.”
“Wouldn't be any use at all. I've been hopelessly in love with your Aunt Miriam for years, and I shan't wait to be asked. What's more, she's my Aunt Miriam too.”
“She is not!”
“You ask her! She adopted me when I was a kid,” said Charles, opening the wicket-gate into the neat little garden of Fox Cottage, and stooping to thump with hearty goodwill, apparently much appreciated, the elderly and stout black Labrador, who had advanced ponderously to greet him. “You see! Even Rex knows I'm persona grata here, and you wouldn't say he was bursting with intelligence, would you? Go on, you old fool, get out of the light!”
“No, and I wouldn't say he had any discrimination either,” replied Abby, with spirit. “He'd welcome any tramp to the house.”
She glanced up to see how this retort was being received, and found that Charles was looking at her with a smile in his eyes, and something more than that. “Would he?” he said.
“Yes, he's—he's disastrously friendly,” she said, aware of a rising blush. “Oh, there's Aunt Miriam, at the window, beckoning to us! Come on!”
Charles followed her into the cottage.
Miss Patterdale, in happy unconsciousness of having timed her interruption inopportunely, greeted them with a nod, and said, addressing herself to Abby: “Well? Had a good time?”
“Lovely!” replied Abby.