'Is it true, auntie—is it?' asked Jenny, turning impetuously towards me.
'Uncle Robert and I love each other like old friends, dearie,' I said, replying to him in a low faltering voice. 'But—I am too old to think of—marrying;' laying my hand gently upon his, resting upon the back of a garden-seat, as I spoke.
'Well, that's what Robert and I said,' frankly ejaculated Jenny. 'You are old, and old people don't marry;' and off she ran to tell the others.
He recovered first, beginning to talk to me about a case he had in hand, and very soon contriving to get me sufficiently interested in it to enter warmly into the pros and cons with him. He was no longer a briefless barrister, having made a name in the profession, and being remunerated accordingly. I have the comfort of knowing that his life, like my own, is on the whole a full and happy one, although we have both had to bid adieu to certain things.
Before the six months he had given me expired, I began to find that I required change of air, and commenced absenting myself occasionally from my beautiful luxurious home for two or three weeks at a time and sometimes even longer, much to the surprise of Philip and Lilian, who could not understand why I should choose to go alone and be so mysterious about the places I visited. But they became less anxious if not less curious when they found that I always returned cheered and refreshed by the change, and at length ceased to question me.
Robert Wentworth appeared to take it for granted that my trips were in search of the picturesque; occasionally remarking that I must be growing familiar with all the loveliest nooks in England. I flattered myself that I had for once succeeded in keeping him in the dark, and he did not suspect the real object of my journeys. But I was mistaken. I might as well have taken him into my confidence at once, and he shewed me that I might, in his own fashion.
During one of my absences from Hill Side, I was under the unpleasant necessity of appearing at a police court. In obedience to a call for Mary Jones, I stepped into the witness-box, as unwilling a witness as had ever made her appearance there. I had just been trying to comfort myself with the reflection that Robert did not take up such cases, and was not at all likely to be there, when our eyes met; and from the amused expression in his, I knew that he was about to examine me, and something of what I might expect. As he afterwards informed me, he had taken up the case for the express purpose of shewing me that he knew all about my movements.
'Is Mary Jones your real name?'
'It is the name I am known by.'
'And you are a lodger in Biggs Court, Bethnal Green?'