“I should n't like to drift apart from dear Ellen's boy,” she said with a smile.
“And I should n't like to lose touch with you, my dear aunt,” said John, with more graciousness. “And that is why I've come to see you to-day. I've had rather a bad time lately.”
“I know—that awful case in the papers.” She shivered. “Don't let us talk of it. You must try to forget it. I wrote to you how shocked I was. I asked you to come and stay with me, and said I would do what I could to comfort you. I believe in the ties of kinship, my dear, and I did n't like to think of you bearing your trouble alone.”
“That was very kind indeed of you,” said John, who had missed the invitation hidden away in the wilderness of the hastily scanned sixteen-page letter. He flushed beneath his dark skin, aware of rudeness. After all, when a lady invites you to her house, it is boorish to ignore the offered hospitality. It is a slight for which one can scarcely apologize. But she evidently bore him no malice.
“It was only natural on my part,” she said amiably. “I shall never forget when poor Flossie died. You remember Flossie, don't you? She used to look so pretty, with her blue bow in her hair, and no one will ever persuade me that she was n't poisoned by the people next door; they were dreadful people. I wish I could remember their name; it was something like Blunks. Anyhow, I was inconsolable, and Mrs. Tawley asked me to stay with her to get over it. I shall never forget how grateful I was. I'm sure you 're looking quite poorly, John,” she added in her inconsequent way. “Let me get you a cup of tea. It will do you good.”
John declined. He wanted to accomplish his errand, but the longer he remained in the company of this lady devoid of the sense of values, the more absurd did that errand seem. A less obstinate man than he would have abandoned it, but John had made up his mind to act on Herold's suggestion, although he mentally bespattered the suggester with varied malediction. He rose and, making his way between the flimsy chairs and tables, stood on the hearth-rug, his hands in his pockets. Unconsciously he scowled at his placid and smiling aunt, who remained seated on the couch, her helpless hands loosely folded on her lap.
“Did you ever hear of a child called Unity Blake?”
“Was that the girl—”
“Yes.”
“What an outlandish name! I often wonder how people come to give such names to children.”