"Oh, Tony, you are too delicious! She can certainly come if you want her, but I'm not sure that you'd think her much good."
"Sit up, Lallie, there's some one coming down the drive. You haven't answered my question. Who and where is Aunt Emileen?"
"Aunt Emileen is my chaperon, but she suffers from delicate health. When Dad took a little house at Fairham last November--and a nice soft winter it was--he told everybody about Aunt Emileen, so that no one should come pestering him and suggesting some nice widow lady to keep house and take care of me. And she answered very well indeed, though it was a little difficult when the clergyman wanted to call and see her." Again she lapsed into that absurd infectious laughter.
"But whose aunt is she?" persisted the bewildered Tony. "I know your father hasn't any sisters, and your dear mother was an only girl. Is she the wife of one of your uncles? Or is she your father's aunt?"
"Honestly, Tony, I can't tell you any more about the lady except that she's Aunt Emileen."
"But what's her surname?"
"I can't tell you, Tony, for I don't know; we never bothered about a surname."
"Now, that's ridiculous, Lallie; the servants couldn't call her Aunt Emileen."
"Oh, Tony, you'll kill me, you're so funny. Listen, and I'll tell you all about it. Aunt Emileen is--a creation, a figment of Dad's brain, a sop thrown to conventionality by the most unconventional man in creation: a Mrs. Harris. She could be as strict and stiff and pernicketty as ever she liked, for she couldn't interfere with us really; and she pleased people very much, but they were sorry she was such an invalid."
"But do you mean to tell me that your father really talked about her to strangers?"