"Sometimes. Let me go to Auntie Lil now."
"I want to whisper something to you, Gerry. Auntie Lil is talking to someone she loves much better than you or me or anyone else in the world, and it would be very unkind to interrupt her."
Gerry was sitting on Augusta's shoulder. From this elevated position he could catch a glimpse of a certain grey dress, and a quick flash of chestnut hair, as the sun shone on it—that dress and that hair belonged to Auntie Lil. It was no matter at all to Gerry that someone else walked by her side, that someone was bending his dark head somewhat close to hers, and that as she listened her steps faltered and grew slow.
Gerry's whole soul was wounded by Augusta's words. His Aunt Lilias did not love anyone better than him. It was his bounden duty, his first duty in life, to have such an erroneous statement put right at once.
He put forth all his strength, struggled down from Augusta's shoulders, and before she was aware of it was speeding like an arrow from a bow to his target, Lilias.
"There, now, I give it up," said Augusta. "Awful child, what mischief may he not make? Don't I hear his shrill voice even here! Oh, I give it up now; I shall go into the house. The full heat of the sun in July does not suit me, and if in addition to all other troubles Lilias is to have a broken heart, I may as well keep in sufficient health to nurse her."
Meanwhile Gerry was having a very comfortable time on Carr's shoulder; his dark eyes were looking at his Aunt Lilias, and his little fat, hot hand was clasped in hers.
"Well," he said suddenly, "which is it?"
"Which is what, Gerry? I don't understand."
"I think you are stoopid, Auntie Lil. Is it him or me?"