“And did you enjoy the drives?” Florence asked, when the children had gone. “Yes, my dear, thank you.” Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment. Then she raised her head, and, as if she had gathered courage, went on in a slightly louder tone, “I thought it would do your dear children good, Florence, to see the country, and, therefore, I ventured to take them some drives. Occasionally Mr. Wimple was so kind as to accompany us.” “And I hope they did him good, too,” Florence said, trying not to betray her amusement. “Yes, my love, I trust they did.” Then Florence remembered the bills paid by Mrs. North. They were all in a sealed envelope in her pocket, but she could not gather the courage to deliver it. She wanted to ask after Sir William Rammage, too, to know whether he had written yet and settled the question of an allowance; but for that, also, her courage failed—the old lady always resented questions. Then she remembered Mr. Fisher’s remark about Alfred Wimple’s writing, and thought it would please Aunt Anne to hear of it. “Mr. Fisher says that Mr. Wimple writes very well; he has been doing some reviewing for the paper.” Mrs. Baines winked with satisfaction. “I am quite sure he writes well, my love,” she answered quickly; “he is a most accomplished man.” “And is there no more news to relate, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked; “no more doings during my absence?” “No, my love, I think not.” “Then I have some news for you. I hope it won’t vex you, for I know you were very angry with her. Mrs. North has been to see me. She really came to see you, but when she found you had gone out of town she asked for me.” Mrs. Baines looked almost alarmed and very angry. “It was most presumptuous of her,” she exclaimed. “But I don’t understand; why should it be presumptuous?” Florence asked, astonished. “She had no right; she had not my permission.” “But, dear Aunt Anne, she came to see you; and why should it be presumptuous?” “I should prefer not to discuss the subject. I have expressed my opinion, and that is sufficient,” Mrs. Baines said haughtily. “I repeat that it was most presumptuous of her, under the circumstances, to call upon you—a liberty, a—Florence,” she went on, with sudden alarm in her voice, “I hope you did not promise to go and see her.” “She never asked me.” “I should have put my veto on it if she had. My dear, you must trust to my mature judgment in some things. I know the world better than you do. Believe me, I have my reasons for every word I say. I treated Mrs. North with the greatest clemency and consideration, though she frequently forgot not only what was due to herself, but what was due to me. I was blind while I stayed with her, Florence, and did not see many things that I do now; for I am not prone to think ill of any one. You know that, my love, do you not? I must beg that you will never, on any account, mention Mrs. North’s name again in my presence.”