“My love, I made an arrangement with Mr. Steggall, and that is sufficient.” Again Aunt Anne’s tone forbade any discussion. Florence felt sure that one day Steggall’s bill would arrive, but she said nothing. “Do you mind giving me the change out of the four pounds?” she asked, very gently. Mrs. Baines went slowly over to her work-basket, and took up a little dress she was making for Catty. “Not now, my love; I want to get on with my work.” “Perhaps I could get your account-book, Aunt Anne; then I should know how much there is left.” Mrs. Baines began to sew. “I did not put anything down in the account-book,” she said doggedly. “I considered, dear Florence, that my time was too valuable. It always seems to me great nonsense to put down every penny one spends.” “It is a check on one’s self.” “I do not wish to keep a check on myself,” Mrs. Baines answered, scornfully. “Could you tell me how much you have left?” Florence asked meekly. “I hope there may be enough to help us through the week.” She did not like to say that she thought it must be nearly untouched. “Florence,” burst out the old lady, with the injured tone in her voice that Florence knew so well, “I have but ten shillings left in the world. If you wish to take it from me you must do so; but it is not like you, my darling.” “Oh, Aunt Anne,” Florence began, bewildered, “I am sure you—— I did not mean—I did not know——” “I’m sure you did not,” Mrs. Baines said, with a sense of injury still in her voice, “but there is nothing so terrible or so galling to a sensitive nature like mine—and your dear Walter’s takes after it, Florence, I am sure—as to be worried about money matters.” “But, indeed, Aunt Anne, I only thought that—that——” but here she stopped, not knowing how to go on for a moment; “I thought that perhaps the unpaid books represented the household expenses,” she added at last. Really, something must be done to make the old lady careful, she thought. “My love,” Mrs. Baines said, with an impatient shake of her head, “I cannot go into the details of every little expense. I am not equal to it. Everything you do not find charged in the books has either been paid, or will be charged, by my request, to my private account, and you must leave it so. I really cannot submit to being made to give an explanation of every penny I spend. I am not a child, Florence. I am not an inexperienced girl; I had kept house before, my love—if you will allow me to say so—before you were born.” The treble note had come into Aunt Anne’s voice; it was a sign that tears were not far off.