'I hope my umbrella's safe, laddie,' were her last words as her son wrapped her in his plaid.
'As safe as the Union Bank,' he replied.
So we left her there, for the waiter had taken coffee into the verandah.
Aunt, somewhat to our astonishment, ordered cigars, and explained to Moncrieff that she did not object to smoking, but did like to see men happy.
Moncrieff smiled.
'You're a marvel as well as my mither,' he said.
He smoked on in silence for fully five minutes, but he often took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully; then he would allow his eyes to follow the curling smoke, watching it with a smile on his face as it faded into invisibility, as they say ghosts do.
'Mr. Moncrieff,' said aunt, archly, 'I know what you are thinking about.'
Moncrieff waved his hand through a wreath of smoke as if to clear his sight.
'If you were a man,' he answered, 'I'd offer to bet you couldn't guess my thoughts. I was not thinking about my Dulcinea, nor even about my mither; I was thinking about you and your britheries—I mean your nephews.'