Mrs. Baines considered for a moment. She seemed to resent the observation.
“No, my love, of course not in London; I am speaking of the country,” she said reprovingly; then she added, “I should enjoy a little drive occasionally myself, if you would trust me with the cart, my love. It would remind me of days gone by. I sometimes drove one at Rottingdean. You are very fortunate, my dear one, in having so few sorrows to remember—for I trust you have few. It always saddens me to think of the past. Let us go indoors.”
Florence put her arm through the old lady’s, and led her in. Then she thought of the books again; it would be a good time to make them up.
“I am always particular about my accounts, you know, Aunt Anne,” she said in an apologetic tone.
“Yes, my love,” answered the old lady; “I admire you for it.”
Florence looked at the figures; they made her wince a little, but she said nothing.
“The bill for the waggonettes, Aunt Anne?” she asked.
“That belongs to me, my dear.”
“Oh no, I can’t allow that.”
“My love, I made an arrangement with Mr. Steggall, and that is sufficient.”