“Why didn’t you write to me, Aunt Anne?” he asked, gaily turning the tables.
“Yes, I ought to have done so. You must forgive me, dears, for being so remiss,” she said, looking at them both, “and believe me that it was from no lack of affection. But,” she went on quickly, “we must not waste our time. You are coming to Rottingdean with me, and at once. Mr. Baines is longing to see you both.”
“But we can’t go now, Aunt Anne,” Walter declared in his kindest manner; “we must get back to the lodgings. We told them to have luncheon ready at one o’clock, and to-night we go home. You must come and lunch with us.”
“That is impossible, dear Walter; you are coming back with me.”
“It can’t be done to-day,” he said regretfully.
“My dear Walter,” she answered, with a look of dismay and in a voice that was almost pained, “what would your uncle say if he heard you? I could not possibly return without you.”
“But he has never seen me, Aunt Anne.”
“That is one reason why he would never forgive me if I did not take you back.”
“But it is so far, and we should be all day getting there,” Walter objected a little helplessly, for he felt already that Aunt Anne would carry her point.
“It is only to Rottingdean”—she spoke with hurt surprise—“and we will drive. I saw a beautiful fly as I was coming on to the pier, and engaged it. I know you too well, my darling, to think that you will refuse me.”