“I dare say she takes a sort of motherly interest in him,” she said to herself. “He is delicate and she has no belongings; poor old lady, how sad it must be to have no belongings, no husband, no children, no mother, no anything. I don’t wonder her sympathies go out even to Mr. Wimple.” Then aloud she asked, “Is he going away for long?”
“He is going to some friends near Portsmouth by the twelve o’clock train to-day,” and Mrs. Baines glanced at the clock; “from Waterloo,” she added.
“Are you going to see him off, Aunt Anne?”
“My love, I have an engagement in the City at one o’clock. I am going out now, but I cannot say what my movements will be between this and then.”
In a moment Aunt Anne’s voice was a shade distant. Florence had only asked the question as a little joke, and with no notion that Aunt Anne would take it seriously.
“I didn’t mean to be curious,” she said, and stroked the old lady’s shoulder.
“I know you did not, my darling. You are the last person in the world to commit a solecism,”—and again there came a smile to Aunt Anne’s face. It made Florence stoop and kiss her.
“And you told me of your expedition to the Albert Memorial, remember,” she went on wickedly; “and I know that you and Mr. Wimple are very sympathetic to each other.”
“You are right, Florence. We have many tastes and sympathies in unison. We find it pleasant to discuss them altogether. Good-bye, my love; do not wait luncheon for me. I shall probably partake of it with a friend”—and she left the room. Florence took up The Centre again, but she could not read for thinking uneasily of the bill which she felt convinced Madame Celestine had just sent to Aunt Anne.
“I wish I could pay it,” she thought; “but I can’t, in spite of mother’s present this morning. It is probably at least fifteen pounds. Besides, Aunt Anne is such a peculiar old lady that the chances are she would be offended if I did.”