“It seems odd, as a mere matter of respect—that’s all, of course—he should not have written me a single line upon the subject,” said Miss Perfect grimly.
“Well, perhaps not very odd,” answered Miss Darkwell carelessly, yet somehow, ever so little, sadly. “I’m beginning to think it a worse world than I used to think it, and so hard to know anyone in it, except dear old grannie.”
And up got the girl, and threw her pretty arms round old Aunt Dinah’s neck, and kissed her.
“Little Vi, little Vi!” said Aunt Dinah, with a tender tremor in her voice, and she laughed a little.
“I think you are tired, darling. Your long drive,” she added.
“I believe I am, grannie. Shall I run away to my bed?”
“God bless you, darling!” said grannie, and rang the bell for old Winnie Dobbs, who appeared; and away, with a second good-night, they went.
“Well, old Winnie Dobbs, great doings, I hear. Grannie says Mr. William’s to be married—a great lady, Miss Kincton Knox, she says—and very pretty—quite a beauty, quite a belle.”
She was looking with a faint little smile down upon the trinkets she was laying upon the dressing-table, and she spoke in the tones in which people recall a very far-off remembrance.
“Well, she did tell me so, Miss Vi: and very glad I was, poor fellow; but very young. I that knew him when he was only the length o’ my arm—to think of him now. But very sensible—always was; a good head—wiser than many an older body.”