“The dear infants!”
Dinner was served, and we took our places. I faced Caroline, while Millicent, who was still chilly, and didn’t mind the fire at her back, looked over the flowers at Bassishaw; an arrangement as can be diagrammatically proved, offering facilities for between-deck pressing of feet on a diagonal plan, and which appeared to suit my young sister admirably. I gave her an amused glance, which Millicent intercepted, and Carrie tried, unsuccessfully, to look as if she hadn’t done it.
“Never mind him, Carrie,” Millicent said reassuringly. “He’s an envious old man, who’s wasted his youth, and he’s getting cynical. His failing years won’t permit him to do such things himself, and his conscience begins to hurt him.”
This was the woman without whom, in Bassishaw’s opinion, my abode fell short of completeness.
“My failing years, Miss Dixon,” I returned, “bring with them a certain charity; nevertheless, allow me to point out your reason for condoning such practices.”
“Which is——?” she queried.
“That you are quite capable of doing the same thing yourself.”
She laughed, and Bassishaw looked puzzled.
“Oh, I’m not tottering to my fall yet,” she retorted. “I have all sorts of little surprises in my blood.”
“You forbid reply, Miss Dixon,” I answered. “You take refuge in a position where man can only maintain a respectful and incredulous silence. A woman’s years——”