Aunt Selina calmly took off her glasses, laid them beside her pen on the desk and paused before replying.
"Good-by, my dear," she said at length; "I'm sure I hope you'll enjoy yourself. Brown Shipley, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Harry. He was a little disconcerted; Aunt Selina played the game almost too well. Then as he stood unconsequently before her, he was seized by a sudden desire to confide in her. "Do you know why I'm going, Aunt Selina?" he asked.
"No, my dear."
"Well, why do you think?"
"I prefer not to guess, if that is what you mean. You may tell me, if you wish."
"Madge Elliston," mumbled Harry.
Aunt Selina stared immovably at her bank book for a moment; then she got up and faced her nephew.
"There is a streak of horse sense in the Wimbourne blood that has been the saving of all of us," she said. "I'm glad to see it come out in you. Good-by, my dear." She kissed him on the cheek.
"How do—how would you like it?" he asked, still hesitating, uncertain as to her meaning.