“You were a baby in arms when I last saw you.”
Miles Hastings laughed, and turned to look again at this old friend of his mother—and perhaps, he thought, of his father—and saw that her cheeks were flushed—most delicately flushed—and her eyes were bright with excitement. He wondered why? There was nothing very exciting about him, he feared.
Mrs. Sloane gently directed him towards the sofa in the window.
“Now let me look at you properly,” she said, putting up her glasses.
“Deal with me mercifully,” he pleaded.
“I see no reason to do that,” she answered.
“It’s awfully good of you,” he murmured.
“I am going to be much gooder than that—as Shan’t says.”
“Shan’t?”
“Yes, Shan’t; do you know her?”