"What's wrong, Aunt Caroline?"
His aunt took a seat beside him on the bed. Her
dove-like eyes wandered about his room, bare save for the drawings on the walls and on a chair in the corner, a cast covered by a wet cloth. Mrs. Carew's hands clasped over her silk bead purse hanging empty between the rings.
"I have come to ask a great favour of you, Antony."
He repeated, in astonishment, "Of me—why, Auntie, anything that I can do...."
Mrs. Carew's slender figure undulated, the sculptor thought. She made him think of a swan—of a lily. Her pale, ineffectual features had an old-fashioned loveliness. He put his hand over his aunt's. He murmured devotedly—
"You must let me do anything there is to do."
"I am in debt, Tony," she murmured, tremulously. "Your uncle gives me so little money—it's impossible to run the establishment."
He exclaimed hotly, "It's a shame, Aunt Caroline."
"Henry thinks we spend a great deal of money, but I like to dress the children well."