Isobel, without looking up, shook her head.
"I am going to Mrs. Wentworth—my Aunt Alison," she replied.
"Good," I said. "I am glad to know that you will be in her cheery company."
Mrs. Wentworth was, indeed, a charming old lady, and so far as I knew, Isobel's only relation in London, if not in England. She occupied a house which, like herself, was small, scrupulously neat and old-worldly. One of those tiny residences which, once counted as being "in the country," had later become enmeshed in the ever-spreading tentacles of greater London.
It was situated on the northern outskirts of the county-city, and although rows of modern "villas" had grown up around it, within the walls of that quaint little homestead one found oneself far enough removed from suburbia.
"When are you going, Isobel?" I asked.
"I think," she replied, "in the morning."
"Will you let me drive you in the Rover?—or are you taking too much baggage?"
"Oh, no," she said, smiling sadly—"I am going to live the simple life for a week. Going out shopping with Aunt Alison—and perhaps sometimes to the pictures!"
"Then I can drive you over?"