“I wonder what she lives on herself,” he thought, as he noticed the one tiny slice lying almost undiminished on her plate; “and I wonder how I should feel if I did not eat more than that.”
By and by they drew their chairs to the fire, and Mrs. Estcourt gave Arthur a beautifully-ornamented hand-screen to shade the heat from his face; as he sat with his feet on the fender, listening to his father’s and aunt’s conversation.
“Well, you have a snug little place here,” said Mr. Vivyan.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Mrs. Estcourt said; but she sighed as she spoke.
“It seems like old times, eh, Daisy?”
A light shone on her face for a minute and then was gone, as she said, “’Tis very odd to hear any one call me that, Ronald. I have not heard it since——,” and then that deep look of pain came again. But as she looked at Arthur almost a merry smile curled the corners of her mouth, and she said, “Arthur thinks so too, I know.”
This was true; for he had just been thinking that if his aunt was like a flower at all, she was more like a lily or a snowdrop, or a very white violet. But he only said, “Is that what I shall have to call you, then? Aunt Daisy! that sounds rather funny, I think.”
Mrs. Estcourt laughed and said, “Well, I think perhaps it does; so if you like you can say Aunt Margaret.”
“Oh, I don’t like that at all!” said Arthur in a very decided tone. “No, please; I would rather say the other; and I think perhaps you are like a daisy when you can’t see the red.”
“Well, you are a funny little boy,” Mrs. Estcourt said; and she laughed quite merrily.