“My dear Walter,” she said, with a sigh and in a tone of great relief, “I am so glad to find you; I went to your lodgings, I saw your name and address in the visitors’ list yesterday, but you were out; then I thought I might find you here. And this is your wife? My dear Florence, I am so glad to see you.” Till that moment Mrs. Walter Hibbert had never heard of the existence of Aunt Anne, but Aunt Anne had evidently heard of Mrs. Hibbert. She knew her Christian name, and called her by it as naturally as if she had been at her christening. She stretched out a small hand covered with a black thread glove as she spoke, and held Florence’s fingers affectionately in hers. Florence looked at her a little wonderingly. Aunt Anne was slight and old, nearly sixty perhaps. All over her face there were little lines that crossed and re-crossed, and branched off in every direction. She had grey hair, and small dark eyes that blinked quickly and nervously; there appeared to be some trifling affection of the left eye, for now and then, as if by accident, it winked at you. The odd thing was that, in spite of her evident tendency to nervous excitement, her shabby black satin dress, almost threadbare shawl, and cheap gloves, there was an air of dignity about the spare old lady, and something like determination in her kindly voice that, joined to her impulsive tenderness, made you quickly understand she would be a very difficult person to oppose. “Dear boy,” she said gently to Walter, “why didn’t you write to me when you were married? You know how glad I should have been to hear of your happiness.” “Why didn’t you write to me, Aunt Anne?” he asked, gaily turning the tables. “Yes, I ought to have done so. You must forgive me, dears, for being so remiss,” she said, looking at them both, “and believe me that it was from no lack of affection. But,” she went on quickly, “we must not waste our time. You are coming to Rottingdean with me, and at once. Mr. Baines is longing to see you both.” “But we can’t go now, Aunt Anne,” Walter declared in his kindest manner; “we must get back to the lodgings. We told them to have luncheon ready at one o’clock, and to-night we go home. You must come and lunch with us.” “That is impossible, dear Walter; you are coming back with me.” “It can’t be done to-day,” he said regretfully. “My dear Walter,” she answered, with a look of dismay and in a voice that was almost pained, “what would your uncle say if he heard you? I could not possibly return without you.” “But he has never seen me, Aunt Anne.” “That is one reason why he would never forgive me if I did not take you back.” “But it is so far, and we should be all day getting there,” Walter objected a little helplessly, for he felt already that Aunt Anne would carry her point.