“Why, it was quite romantic,” Florence exclaimed.
Walter had a curious way of looking up when he was amused, and he looked up in that curious way now.
“Yes,” he said, “quite romantic.”
“Do go on.”
“I don’t know any more except that somehow they got married, and she turned up to-day as you saw; and I wish she hadn’t given us any jam, confound it. I say, darling, let’s throw it over that hedge.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t for the world,” Florence said. “It would be so unkind. She was a dear old lady, Walter, and I am glad we went to see her. She asked for our address in London, and said she should write to us.”
But Aunt Anne did not write for a long time, and then it was only to condole with Walter on the death of his father. The first year after their visit to Rottingdean she sent a large Christmas card inscribed to “My dear Walter and Florence, from Aunt Anne;” but the second year even this was omitted. It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert had been married nearly seven years that Aunt Anne again appeared before them.
