And it was better still, as I turned to stroll on, to behold coming toward me down the path, with little swinging step, and shapely head well up in air, none other than our Ermyntrude.
I say “our” because—it is really absurd to think of it—it seems only a few months ago since she was a sprawling tom-boy sort of a little girl, who sat on my knee and listened with her mouth open to my reminiscences of personal encounters with unicorns and the behemoth of Holy Writ. She must be now—by George! she is—not a minute under two-and-twenty. And that means—hélas! it undoubtedly means—that I am getting to be an old boy indeed. At Christmas-tide—I recall it now—Mrs Albert spoke of me as the oldest friend of the family. It sounded kindly at the time, and I had a special pleasure in the smile Ermyntrude wore as she, with the others, lifted her glass towards me. I won’t say what vagrant thoughts and ambitions that smile did not raise in my mind—and, lo! they were toasting me as an amiable elderly friend of the Fernbank household. No wonder I am glad to have lived till February!
Ermyntrude had a roll of music in her hands. There was a charming glow on her cheeks, and a healthy, happy, sparkle in her eyes. She stopped short before me, with a little exclamation of not displeased surprise!
“Why, how nice to run upon you like this,” she said, in high spirits. “We thought you must have gone off to the Riviera, or Algiers, or somewhere—for your cold, you know. Mamma was speaking of you only yesterday—hoping that you were taking care of yourself.”
“Had I a cold?” I asked absently. The air had grown chillier. We walked along together, and she let me carry the music.
“O—you haven’t heard,” she exclaimed suddenly, “such news as I have for you! You couldn’t ever guess!”
“Is it something about crinoline?” I queried. “Your mother was telling
“Rubbish!” said Ermyntrude gaily. “I’m engaged!”
The wind had really got round into the East, and I, fastened my coat at the collar. “I am sure”—I remarked at last—“I’m sure I congratulate—the happy young man. Do I know him?”
“I hardly think so,” she replied. “You see, it’s—it’s what you might call rather sudden. We haven’t known him ourselves very long—that is, intimately. You may have heard his name—the Honourable Knobbeleigh Jones. It’s a very old family though the title is somewhat new. His father is Lord Skillyduff, you know.”