The news from America had set old Miss Craven thinking too. She had at first rejoiced at Audrey's intimacy with the Havilands, for various reasons. She was glad to see her settling down--for the first time in her volatile life--into a friendship with another girl; to hear of her being interested in picture-galleries; to find a uniform gaiety taking the place of the restless, captious moods which made others suffer besides herself. As for the boy, he was a nice clever boy who would make his way in the world; but he was only "the boy." Three months ago, if anybody had told Miss Craven that there was a possibility of an engagement between Audrey and Ted Haviland, she would have laughed them to scorn. But when it gradually dawned on her that Katherine hardly ever called at the house with her brother, that he and Audrey went everywhere together, and Katherine never made a third in their expeditions, it occurred to her that she really ought to speak a word in season. Her only difficulty was to find the season. After much futile watching of her opportunity, she resolved to trust to the inspiration of the moment. Unfortunately, the moment of the inspiration happened to be that in which Audrey came in dressed for a row up the river, and chafing with anxiety because Ted was ten minutes behind time. This at once suggested the subject in hand. But Miss Craven began cautiously-- "Audrey, my dear, do you think you've enough wraps with you? These evenings on the river are treacherous." Audrey gave an impatient twitch to a sort of Elizabethan ruff she wore round her neck. "How tiresome of Ted to be late, when I particularly told him to be early!" "Is Miss Haviland going with you? Poor girl, she looks as if a blow on the river would do her good." "N-no, she isn't." "H'm--you'd better wait and have some tea first?" "I've waited quite long enough already. We're going to drive to Hammersmith, and we shall get tea there or at Kew." "I don't want to interfere with your amusements, but doesn't it strike you as--er--a little imprudent to go about so much with 'Ted,' as you call him?" "No, of course not. He's not going to throw me overboard. It's the most natural thing in the world that I should go with him." "Yes--to you, my dear, and I daresay to the young man himself. But if you are seen together, people are sure to talk." "Let them. I don't mind in the least--I rather like it." "_Like_ it?" "Yes. You must own it's flattering. People here wouldn't take the trouble to talk if I were nobody. London isn't Oxford." "No; you may do many things in Oxford which you mayn't do in London. But times have changed. I can't imagine your dear mother saying she would 'like' to be talked about."