“I said that he was a silly ass and that if I had the chance of a month in the west of Ireland in a sporting sort of house--he told me you hunted a lot--I’d simply jump at it. But the poor fellow was frightfully sick at the prospect, said he was sure he wouldn’t get on with you, and that you’d simply hate him. He had a book of poetry just coming out and he was hoping to get a play of his taken on, a play about fairies. I give you my word he was very near crying, so, after a lot of talking, we hit on the idea of my coming here. He was to lie low in London so that his father wouldn’t find him.” “You neither of you thought about me, apparently,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “Oh, yes we did. We thought as you hadn’t seen him since he was a child that you wouldn’t know him. And of course we thought you’d be frightfully old. There didn’t seem to be much harm in it.” “And you--you came here and called me Aunt Nell.” “You’re far the nicest aunt I’ve ever seen or even imagined.” “And you actually had the cheek to----” Mrs. MacDermott stopped abruptly and blushed. She was thinking of the kisses. His thoughts followed hers, though she did not complete the sentence. “Only the first day,” he said. “You wouldn’t let me afterwards. Except once, and you didn’t really let me then. I just did it. I give you my word I couldn’t help it. You looked so jolly. No fellow could have helped it. I believe Bertram would have done the same, though he is a poet.” “And now,” said Mrs. MacDermott, “before you go----” “Must I go----” “Out of this house and back to London today,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “But before you go I’d rather like to know who you are, since you’re not Bertram Connell.” “My name is Maitland, Robert Maitland, but they generally call me Bob. I’m in the 30th Lancers. I say, it was rather funny your thinking I couldn’t ride and turning on that old parson to talk poetry to me.” Mrs. MacDermott allowed herself to smile. The matter was really settled that day before Bob Maitland left for London; but it was a week later when Mrs. MacDermott announced her decision to her brother. “There’s no fool like an old fool,” she wrote, “and at my age I ought to have more sense. But I took to Bob the moment I saw him, and if he makes as good a husband as he did a nephew we’ll get on together all right--though he is a few years younger than I am.” THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lady Bountiful, by George A. Birmingham