Her face suddenly clouded over.
"I'm glad now poor Edward's gone. It's a bad business for the children."
McTaggart felt immensely sorry. He saw she took it keenly to heart.
"I suppose"—his voice was very gentle—"you wouldn't care..." he hesitated—"to come and dine with me to-night—if you're disengaged—have nothing better? I'm only just back from abroad and find so many friends away. Won't you take pity on my loneliness?"
The little lady was inwardly flattered, but she laughed aside the invitation.
"Nonsense!—it's very kind, I'm sure ... but you don't want an old woman like me!"
"I do"—he smiled back at her. "Say you will?" He saw her glance furtively at the clock beyond. "There's loads of time—I'll change and return to fetch you. What about a theatre?"
Aunt Elizabeth was tempted.
"Well ... then—some quiet place without a band. As it happens I have a good ear for music and I won't risk my digestion by swallowing to Tango time! And—Marie Tempest, for choice—there's no nonsense about her!"
Her voice was brisk. "I'm tired of having sermons preached at me from the stage, or so-called 'Comedies'—which are nothing but an excuse for extravagant dress. I want to be amused, you see, not stunned by mere colour and light, and rows of common, simpering girls advertising for a husband."