“I dare say she takes a sort of motherly interest in him,” she said to herself. “He is delicate and she has no belongings; poor old lady, how sad it must be to have no belongings, no husband, no children, no mother, no anything. I don’t wonder her sympathies go out even to Mr. Wimple.” Then aloud she asked, “Is he going away for long?” “He is going to some friends near Portsmouth by the twelve o’clock train to-day,” and Mrs. Baines glanced at the clock; “from Waterloo,” she added. “Are you going to see him off, Aunt Anne?” “My love, I have an engagement in the City at one o’clock. I am going out now, but I cannot say what my movements will be between this and then.” In a moment Aunt Anne’s voice was a shade distant. Florence had only asked the question as a little joke, and with no notion that Aunt Anne would take it seriously. “I didn’t mean to be curious,” she said, and stroked the old lady’s shoulder. “I know you did not, my darling. You are the last person in the world to commit a solecism,”—and again there came a smile to Aunt Anne’s face. It made Florence stoop and kiss her. “And you told me of your expedition to the Albert Memorial, remember,” she went on wickedly; “and I know that you and Mr. Wimple are very sympathetic to each other.” “You are right, Florence. We have many tastes and sympathies in unison. We find it pleasant to discuss them altogether. Good-bye, my love; do not wait luncheon for me. I shall probably partake of it with a friend”—and she left the room. Florence took up _The Centre_ again, but she could not read for thinking uneasily of the bill which she felt convinced Madame Celestine had just sent to Aunt Anne. “I wish I could pay it,” she thought; “but I can’t, in spite of mother’s present this morning. It is probably at least fifteen pounds. Besides, Aunt Anne is such a peculiar old lady that the chances are she would be offended if I did.” She put down the paper and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she went to the writing-table in the corner by the fireplace, unlocked the corner drawer and took out a little china bowl in which she was in the habit of keeping the money she had in the house. Four pounds in gold and a five-pound note. She took out the note, put in a cheque, locked the drawer and waited. When she heard the soft footsteps of Aunt Anne descending the stairs she went to the door nervously, uncertain how what she was going to do would be received. Mrs. Baines was dressed ready to go out. She was a little smarter than usual. Round her throat there was some soft white muslin tied in a large bow that fell on her chest and relieved the sombreness of her attire. The heavy crape veil she usually wore was replaced by a thinner one that had little spots of jet upon it. “Aunt Anne, you look as if you were going to a party.” The old lady was almost confused, like a person who is found out in some roguish mischief of which she is half, but only half, ashamed.