“Mr. Wimple,” she said, in a low voice, for she was afraid of Aunt Anne above hearing the hum of conversation, “I wanted to speak to you about Aunt Anne—Mrs. Baines.” He looked at her then, but still he said nothing. “I am very fond of her,” she added, as if in excuse for her interference. “I am sure you are,” he answered, and waited. Florence was forced to go on. “She came home last night, and she surprised me so—she told me—oh, Mr. Wimple, it can’t be true?” “What cannot be true, Mrs. Hibbert?” he asked, speaking like an automaton. “That—that—you had asked her to marry you?” “It is quite true,” he said, and looked at her unflinchingly; his face wore an expression of slight surprise. “But it is so strange and unsuitable; she is so much older than you.” “I know she is much older.” He seemed to unlock his lips every time he spoke. “She is quite old and feeble,” Florence said compassionately. “Yes, she is quite old and feeble,” he repeated. “And, Mr. Wimple, do you know that she is not rich, that—that she has no money, nothing. She is poor.” “I know she is poor, Mrs. Hibbert.” He seemed to be afflicted with an utter destitution of language, an incapacity to say anything but the shortest, most cut-and-dried sentence. It affected Florence. But again she struggled on; though she felt her words come with difficulty. “And you—forgive me, but I am fond of her—and you, I believe, are not rich. Walter told me that you were not, and—and——” She was beginning to despair of making any way with Mr. Wimple, his eyes were dull and uninterested, he seemed insensible to everything except the burden of his own gravity. “I am not rich, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said. The manner in which he repeated her name at the end of every sentence irritated Florence. “And oh, Mr. Wimple,” she went on, “it is so—so absurd.” But he said nothing, though she waited. “It is so strange, and Walter will be very angry.” “It is not Walters affair, Mrs. Hibbert, it is mine,” he said. “And hers, and Aunt Anne’s too.” “And hers,” he repeated. “And she is old, she wants comforts and luxury; and oh, I cannot bear to think of it. It seems cruel.” “We have talked it all over, Mrs. Hibbert; she knows best herself what she wants,” he answered, without the slightest change in his manner. “But are you really in love with her?” “I am very fond of her,” he said blankly. Florence put her hand to her throat to steady her utterance. “But you are not in love with her? You can’t be; she is old enough to be your mother. She is a dear, sweet old lady, but you can’t be in love with her.” “I don’t see the necessity of our discussing this,” he said, still with extreme gravity. “But she is my aunt, at least she is Walter’s, which is all the same.” He gave a little dry cough. “Mrs. Baines and I have settled our affairs, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said. “There is no necessity to go over them.” “But it is so ridiculous.”