"Ah, you are far too big now to care for sugar plums," said Miss Bellamy with a little sigh.
"Not at all too big. Only that I now require a different kind of sugar plum to keep me good, from those I cared for then."
"Why, you could not have been more than four years old!"
"I suppose that was about my age."
"And I never saw your poor dear mamma after that day!"
"I was just ten years old when I lost my mother," said Gerald, gravely.
"Four of us, there were, all bosom friends, and they called us the Four Graces in the little town where we were born and brought up; and now I am the only one that is left alive!" said Miss Bellamy, with a little quaver in her voice. "There was Ellen Barry; she married your uncle, Jacob Lloyd. Then there was Minna, Jacob's sister, who married your father. The third was Mary Greaves, who married Mr. Ambrose Murray. There seemed to be no husband left for me: but, thank Heaven, I have never felt the need of one!"
"It is never too late to make a change for the better," said Gerald, demurely, as he pushed away his plate.
"In my case it would have been for the worse. I should only have tormented some poor man's life out of him, and no one can lay that to my charge now."
As soon as Eliza had cleared the table, Miss Bellamy put a tiny copper kettle to simmer on the hob, and then produced a bottle of whisky, a lemon, and the other materials necessary for brewing a glass of punch. From another cupboard she brought out a box of cigars, which she had made a special journey into the City to buy. Being no judge of such articles, or their cost, she had brought back a box of what Mr. Piper would have called "duffers."