“And, Aunt Anne, I have ordered most things in, but the tradespeople come every day if there is anything more you want. What you order is, of course, put down, but here is some money for odds and ends. Four pounds, I think, will carry you through; and here is a little book in which to put down your expenses. I always keep a most careful account of what I spend; you don’t mind doing so either, do you?” “My love, anything you wish will be a pleasure to me.” “If you please, ma’am,” said Jane, entering, “the driver says you must start at once if you want to catch this train.” “Then good-bye, dear Aunt Anne; good-bye, dear dickie-birds; be happy together. You shall see me very soon again; send me a letter every other day;” and with many embraces Florence was allowed to get out of the door. But Aunt Anne and the children ran excitedly after her to the gate, and helped her into the little waggonette, and kissed their hands and waved their handkerchiefs as she drove off, and called “Good-bye, good-bye;” and so, watching them, Florence went along the white road towards the station. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. The days that followed were busy ones for Florence—busy in a domestic sense, so that the history of them does not concern us here. Mr. Fisher called one afternoon; by a strange coincidence it was while Ethel Dunlop was helping Florence with an inventory of china. Miss Dunlop readily promised to visit his mother, but she did not show any particular interest in the editor. “He has been so kind,” Florence said, “and don’t you think he is very agreeable?” “Oh yes; but you know, Florrie dear, he has a very square jaw.” “Well?” “It is a good thing he never married again; he would have been very obstinate.” “But why do you say never did?—as if he never would. He is only forty-odd.” “Only forty-odd!” laughed Ethel—“only a million. If a man is over eight-and-twenty he might as well be over eighty; it is mere modesty that he is not.” “Walter is over thirty, and just as fascinating as ever.” Florence was rather indignant. “Ah, yes, but he is married, and married men take such a long time to grow old. By the way, Mr. Fisher said something about a theatre-party, when his mother is here. Do you think I might ask him to invite George Dighton as well? George is very fond of theatres.” Before Florence could reply, a carriage stopped at the door; it looked familiar, it reminded her of Aunt Anne in her triumphant days. But a strange lady descended from it now, and was shown upstairs to the drawing-room, in which Aunt Anne had sat and related her woes and known her triumphs. “Mrs. North, ma’am,” said the servant; and then Florence understood.