Durin' the next week we talked it over a lot; but, so far as I can remember, we only said about the same thing. It came out that this friend of Auntie's was one that Vee never could stand for, anyway: a giddy old dame who kalsomined her face, was free with advice on bringin' up nieces, and was a bridge and embroidery fiend.
"And I shall be left to sit around," says Vee, "bored stiff."
I knew it wasn't just a whim of hers; for one evening along towards the last, I found her with her eyelids red.
"Been cryin'?" I asks.
"A little," says Vee. "Silly thing to do when one's packing."
"See here, Vee," says I; "I ought to be doing something about this."
"But you can't," says she. "No one can. I must trot along with Auntie, just as I always have, and stay until—until she's ready to come back."
"Then it'll be a case of movin' on somewhere for the summer, I expect—Nova Scotia or Iceland?" says I.
Vee nods and lets out a sigh.
"If we was a pair of wild ducks, now," says I.