It could be truthfully said of Mrs. Sloane, as was said of somebody by somebody—that whatever her age she didn’t look it. The tribute savours of the wit and understanding of Sidney Smith, whose judgment on the matter of babies is almost as well known as Solomon’s. Mrs. Sloane was triumphantly young, although to Shan’t she was a very, very old lady; but Shan’t was too young to recognize youth when she met it in the guise of old age.
Across the lawn, to the rescue of Aunt Elsie, came Mrs. Sloane. She wore a mushroom hat and gardening gloves and used a spud as walking-stick. “How goes the war?” she asked.
“You may go, Shan’t,” said Aunt Elsie.
“You got her back, then? With or without difficulty?”
“You may go, Shan’t.”
“I came back with Mrs. Oven,” said Shan’t, swinging her leg, reluctant to go.
“Shan’t, you may go.”
At that moment Shan’t would rather have turned head over heels. She would have found it easier.
“Run along, darling.”
“Must I?”