‘My dear, gentlemen are not like us,’ said Miss Cherry, instinctively defending the absent, ‘and to tell the truth, when I have been going to the play, or to a party--I mean in my young days--I used to like to see the lighted streets--all the shops shining, and the people thronging past on the pavement. I am afraid it was a vulgar taste; but I liked it. And men, who can go where they please---- I am very sorry that your mamma has a headache, Edward. She is not seeing anyone? I wonder what James----?’ Here she stopped abruptly and looked conscious, feeling that to discuss her brother with these young persons would be very foolish. Fortunately they were occupied with each other, and did not pay much attention to what she said. ‘Oh, Edward,’ said Cara, ‘stay and read to us! There is nothing I like so much. It is always dull here in the evenings, much duller than at the Hill, except when we go out. And Aunt Cherry has her work, and so have I. Sit here--here is a comfortable chair close to the lamp. You have nothing particular to do, and if your mother has a headache, she does not want you.’ ‘I don’t require to be coaxed,’ said Edward, his face glowing with pleasure; and then a certain pallor stole over it as he said to himself, she is treating me like her brother; but even that was pleasant, after a sort. ‘I am quite willing to read,’ he said; ‘what shall it be? Tell me what book you like best.’ ‘Poetry,’ said Cara; ‘don’t you like poetry, Aunt Cherry? There is a novel there; but I prefer Tennyson. Mr. Browning is a little too hard for me. Aunt Cherry, Edward is very good when he reads out loud. You would like to hear “Elaine”?’ ‘Ye-es,’ said Miss Cherry. She cast a regretful glance at the novel, which was fresh from Mudie’s; but soon cheered up, reflecting that she was half through the second volume, and that it would not be amusing to begin it over again. ‘In my young days stories would bear reading two or three times over,’ she said, unconsciously following out her own thought; ‘but they have fallen off like everything else. Yes, my dear, I am always fond of poetry. Let me get my work. It is the new kind of art-needlework, Edward. I don’t know if you have seen any of it. It is considered a great deal better in design than the Berlin work we used to do, and it is a very easy stitch, and goes quickly. That is what I like in it. I must have the basket with all my crewels, Cara, and my scissors and my thimble, before he begins. I hate interrupting anyone who is reading. But you are only hemming, my dear. You might have prettier work for the drawing-room. I think girls should always have some pretty work in hand; don’t you think so, Edward? It is pleasanter to look at than that plain piece of white work.’