“Youth,” Ethel laughed; “he is three-and-twenty.”
“A most mature age,” and a smile flickered over Mr. Fisher’s grave face; “and does he often escort you to concerts?”
“Occasionally.”
“He is fortunate in having the privilege as well as the time to avail himself of it,” the editor said formally. His manner was always reserved, sometimes even a little stately. Now and then, oddly enough, it reminded one of Aunt Anne’s, though it was a generation younger, and he had not her faculty for long words.
“You never seem able to go to concerts. It is quite sad and wicked,” Ethel said brightly.
He looked up as if he liked her.
“Not often. Perhaps some day if you would honour me, only I am not a cousin; still I have passed the giddy age of Mr. Dighton.”
“We will, we will,” she laughed, and nodded; “but relations only are able to survive the responsibility of taking me about alone. Perhaps Mrs. Hibbert would——”
“Ah yes, Mr. Wimple,” they heard Mrs. Baines say, “I have good reason to know Sir William Rammage. He is my own cousin, though for years and years we had not met till we did so a few months since, when I came to take up my residence in London.”
The old lady’s mouth twitched nervously, the sad note of a week ago made itself heard in her voice again. Mrs. Hibbert knew that she was thinking of the unsuccessful appeal to her rich relation, and of the port wine that had always proved pernicious to her digestion.