“I don’t get any myself now.” “Then what do you stay with her for?” “Because it won’t do to let her slip.” “It’s mother that makes such a fuss—it’s not me; though, of course, it’s hard, you always being away like this.” “Tell her she won’t gain anything by making a fuss,” Alfred Wimple said, in the hard voice Aunt Anne knew so well. “She says all the four years we have been married you have not kept me decently three months together.” Aunt Anne held on to the shed for dear life, and her heart stood still. “I shall keep you decently by-and-by, Caroline.” “And then she’s always going on about what you owe her. I daren’t go up to London any more, she leads me such a life.” “Tell her I’ll pay her by-and-by,” Alfred Wimple said. “I’m sure if it wasn’t for grandmother being at Liphook, I don’t know what I’d do. Sometimes I think I’d better get a place of some sort—then I’d be able to help you.” “But your grandmother doesn’t lead you a life, Caroline, does she?” “Well, you see, it was she made us get married, so she can’t well, and she has kept mother quiet on that account; but couldn’t you come to us again, Alfred? I don’t believe grandmother would mind. She thinks you are very wise to stay with your aunt if you’re going to get her money, and often tells me I am impatient, but I can’t bear being parted like this.” “And I can’t bear it either”—something that was equivalent to tenderness came into his voice. Aunt Anne drew her breath as she heard it. “You know I am fond of you; I never was fond of anybody else.” “Mother says when you first had her rooms in the Gray’s Inn Road, there was some girl you used to go out with?” “She was fond of me,” he said; “I didn’t care about her.” “My goodness! look at the rain,” said the woman, as it came pouring down; “we must stay here till it’s over a bit. Alfred, you are sure you are as fond of me as ever?” “I am just as fond of you; I am fonder. You don’t suppose I stay with an old woman from choice, do you? I do it just as much for your sake as mine, Caroline.” “Call me your wife again—you haven’t said it lately—and kiss me, do kiss me.” “You are my wife,” he said, “and you know I am fond of you, and——” Aunt Anne heard the sound of his kisses. “I like holding you again,” he went on; “it’s awful being always with that old woman.” “Well, you don’t have to kiss her, as she’s your aunt,” she said with a laugh. “I have to kiss her night and morning,” he answered; “but I get out of her way as much as possible—you can bet that.” “Mother and grandmother are always saying, perhaps she will give you the slip and leave her money to somebody else.” “I don’t think she’ll do that,” he said; “but that’s one reason why I keep a sharp look-out.” “Hasn’t she got anything now? You don’t seem to get much out of her, if she has.” “She’s a close-fisted old woman. Come up closer on my shoulder—I like feeling your face there.” “Suppose she died to-morrow,” the woman said—“where would you be then?”