“And she is just like you, dear Florence,” said the old lady, in a choking voice.
“She is just like herself, and therefore like a dickie-bird, and a white rabbit, and a tortoiseshell kitten, and many other things too numerous to mention,” Florence laughed, overtaking Catty and kissing her little round face. “But go, my babes, go—go and get ready; your beloved mummy wants to turn you out of doors;” and shouting with joy the children scampered off.
Florence took up The Centre.
“Won’t you have the paper, Aunt Anne, and a quiet quarter of an hour?”
“Thank you, no, my love; I rarely care to peruse it until a more leisure time of the day. With your permission I will leave you now, I have some business to transact out of doors; are there any commissions I could execute for you?”
“No, thank you.”
Aunt Anne was always thoughtful, Florence said to herself. Every morning since she came this question had been asked and answered in almost the same words.
“By the way, Aunt Anne, Mr. Wimple called yesterday. I am sorry I was not at home”—and this she felt to be a fib.
“He told me that he intended to do so before he left town.”
There was a strange light on Aunt Anne’s face when she spoke of him; her niece saw it with wonder.