The train steamed in at last. Only one passenger got out of a first-class carriage. Mrs. MacDermott looked at him in doubt. He was not in the least the sort of man she expected to see. Poets, so she understood, have long hair and sallow, clean-shaven faces. This young man’s head was closely-cropped and he had a fair moustache. He was smartly dressed in well-fitting clothes. Poets are, or ought to be, sloppy in their attire. Also, judged by the colour of his cheeks and his vigorous step, this man was in perfect health. Mrs. MacDermott approached him with some hesitation. The young man was standing in the middle of the platform looking around. His eyes rested on Mrs. MacDermott for a moment, but passed from her again. He was expecting someone whom he did not see. “Are you Bertram Connell, by any chance?” asked Mrs. MacDermott. “That’s me,” said the young man, “and I’m expecting an aunt to meet me. I say, are you a cousin? I didn’t know I had a cousin.” The mistake was an excusable one. Mrs. MacDermott looked very young and pretty in her blue tweed. She appreciated the compliment paid her all the more because it was obviously sincere. “You haven’t any cousins,” she said. “Not on your father’s side, anyway. I’m your aunt.” “Aunt Nell!” he said, plainly startled by the information. “Great Scott! and I thought----” He paused and looked at Mrs. MacDermott with genuine surprise. Then he recovered his self-possession. He put his arm round her neck and kissed her heartily, first on one cheek, then on the other. Aunts are kissed by their nephews every day as a matter of course. They expect it. Mrs. MacDermott had not thought about the matter beforehand. If she had she would have taken it for granted that Bertram would kiss her, occasionally, uncomfortably and without conviction. The kisses she actually received embarrassed her. She even blushed a little and was annoyed with herself for blushing. “There doesn’t seem to be much the matter with your nerve,” she said. Bertram became suddenly grave. “My nerves are in a rotten state,” he said. “The doctor--specialist, you know, tip-top man--said the only thing for me was life in the country, fresh air, birds, flowers, new milk, all that sort of thing.” “Your father wrote all that to me,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “Poor old dad,” said Bertram, “he’s horribly upset about it.” Mrs. MacDermott was further puzzled about her nephew’s nervous breakdown when she suggested about 7 o’clock that it was time to dress for dinner. Bertram who had been talking cheerfully and smoking a good deal, put his arm round her waist and ran her upstairs. “Jolly thing to have an aunt like you,” he said. Mrs. MacDermott was slightly out of breath and angry with herself for blushing again. At bedtime she refused a good-night kiss with some dignity. Bertram protested. “Oh, I say, Aunt Nell, that’s all rot, you know. An aunt is just one of the people you do kiss, night and morning.”