Miss Kezia came into the hall and greeted him, surprised.
He turned to her, and asked her if she would be so very kind—his sister had lost her cook quite suddenly—not very experienced—advice—
Miss Kezia presently had gone upstairs to don her bonnet, her one weakness, love of giving advice, enveloping her in a cloud of complacency.
"Now, small Sheila Pat, am I not a true friend? But, mark this, I have told no falsehoods." He took her on his knee. "My sister has lost her cook. She is inexperienced. She does want advice," he twinkled there; "I don't know that it's the advice of your estimable aunt that she particularly requires, but we'll hope so. Your aunt once whacked my sister's baby on the back when it had swallowed a spoon or fork or knife or something of the kind. Perhaps it was the soup-tureen. Well, now, I shall have to leave your aunt in one room while I explain to my sister. You'll have to love me for ever for this, Sheila Pat."
A little later, and noise echoed with joyful abandon through the house.
When Ted bade them good night, he said hesitatingly:—
"I say, Nell—er—"
"Say on!" she encouraged him.
"You don't think—I mean—well, you won't get thinking—er—will you?"
"Oh, Ted, why? Have you noticed any grey hairs yet?" She put up her hands to her hair.