"I'm afraid, my dear," he said at last, turning back to Kitty, "I'm afraid we've reached a cul-de-sac."
His tones were despondent, and Kitty's spirits sank a degree lower. She looked at him bleakly, and he returned her glance with one equally bleak. Then, into this dejected council of two—cheerful, decided, and aboundingly energetic swept Aunt Eliza.
"Good afternoon, my dear," she said, making a peck at Kitty's cheek. "That flunkey, idling his life away on the hall mat, said I should find you here, so I saved him from overwork by showing myself in. How are you, St. John? You're looking a bit peaky this afternoon, aren't you?"
"It's old age beginning to tell," laughed Lord St. John, shaking hands.
"Old age?—Fiddlesticks!" Eliza fumed contemptuously. "I suppose the truth is you're fashin' yourself because Nan's engaged to be married. I've always said you were just like an old hen with one chick."
"I'd like to see the child with a nest of her own, all the same, Eliza."
"Hark to the man! And when 'tis settled she shall have the nest, he looks for all the world as though she had just fallen out of it!"
St. John wheeled round suddenly.
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of—that some day she may . . . fall out of this particular nest that's building."
"And why should she do that?" demanded Eliza truculently. "Roger's as bonnie and brave a mate as any woman need look for, and Trenby Hall's a fine home to bring his bride to."