"How delightful. I should have loved to join you, but I have promised to lunch with Mrs. Pooney, and I couldn't disappoint her. She is downstairs now, cooking a chicken. Someone sent her a chicken. Wasn't that nice?"
"Very decent of someone. I hope it is a tender chicken. And now, Aunt, could Flamby take a peep at your place and perhaps make a sort of list. Some of the things we could get to-day, and perhaps to-morrow you could run along with her and complete the purchases."
"I should love it. Dear me!" Into the round blue eyes came suddenly tears of laughter, and Mrs. Chumley became convulsed with silent merriment, glancing helplessly from Don to Flamby. This merriment was contagious; so that ere long all three were behaving quite ridiculously.
"Whatever is the Aunt laughing about?" inquired Don.
"Dear me!" gasped Mrs. Chumley, struggling to regain composure—"poor child! Of course you have nowhere to sleep to-night. How ridiculous—a squirrel without a nest." She hugged Flamby affectionately. "You will stay with me, dear, won't you?"
"Oh, but really—may I? Have you room?"
"Certainly, dear. Friends often stay with me. I have a queer thing in my sitting-room that looks like a bookcase, but is really a bed. You can stay with me just as long as you like. There is no hurry to get your own place ready, is there? There isn't any hurry, is there, Don?"
"No particular hurry, Aunt. But, naturally, Flamby will get things in order as soon as possible."
"Thank you so much," said Flamby, faint traces of mist disturbing her sight.
"Not at all, dear. I'm glad. The longer you stay the gladder I shall be. What an absurd word—gladder. There is something wrong about it, surely, Don?"