But here the door opened, and for the moment Mr. Wimple’s arrival put an end to Aunt Anne’s remembrances. Mr. Wimple was evidently conscious of his evening clothes; his waistcoat was cut so as to show as much white shirt as possible; his tie looked a little rumpled, as though the first attempt at making a bow had not been successful. He shook hands solemnly with his host and hostess, then looked round almost sadly, and in a voice that was full of grave meaning said it was cold and chilly. “Cough better?” Walter inquired. “Yes, it is better,” Mr. Wimple replied slowly after a moment’s consideration, as if the question was a momentous one. “That’s right. Now, I must introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Baines. Alfred Wimple is an old schoolfellow of mine, Aunt Anne.” The old lady put out her gloved hand with the lace ruffle round the wrist. “I am glad to meet you,” she said. “It is always a pleasure to me to meet any one who has been intimately associated with my dear Walter.” “And to me to meet any one belonging to him,” Mr. Wimple responded, with much gravity. “Walter is the oldest, and I may say the dearest, friend I possess.” “It makes us also friends;” and Aunt Anne gave him a little gracious smile. He looked up at her. “It would be impossible that any one loving my dear Walter should not possess my friendship,” she said as if explaining her previous speech: she made it appear almost a condescension. He looked at her again, but more attentively. “I am very fond of Walter,” he said. “It is impossible to help it—dear boy,” she said under her breath as she looked at her nephew. “It must be a great pleasure to him, Mr. Wimple, to preserve your affection; the feelings of our youth are so often lost in oblivion as we grow old—as we grow older I should say, in speaking to you.” The other guests entered, Ethel Dunlop a little shy but smiling, as if aware that being a girl she had more business at dances than at dinner-parties, but was nevertheless quite happy. And lastly Mr. Fisher. Alfred Wimple stood on one side till Walter went towards him. “Fisher, this is a very old friend of mine. I want to introduce him to you.” There was something irritating and savouring of mock humility in Mr. Wimple’s manner as he bowed and said, with a little gulp that was one of his peculiarities— “Walter is always conferring benefits upon me—this is a great honour.” Mr. Fisher looked at him and, with a polite word, turned to Ethel Dunlop. She was busy with her glove. “Buttons always come off,” she said, without looking up. Other people might treat him with deference as an editor; to her he was a mere man. “But you can at least sew them on; my sex is not so accomplished.”