"That mamma knows Mr. Fenwick is spooney, and looks up at times to see that he's going on." Laetitia seems to receive this idea with some hesitation or reserve. "Looks up at times to see if he's going on?" she repeats inquiringly. "Yes, of course--like we should. Only I didn't say 'see if.' I said 'see that.' It makes all the difference." Miss Wilson breaks into a laugh. "And there you are all the time looking as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, and as grave as a judge." Sally has to acquiesce in being kissed by her friend at this point; but she curls up a little as one who protests against being patronised. "We-e-e-ell!" she says, lengthening out the word, "why not? I don't see anything in _that_!" "Oh no, dear--_that's_ all right! Why shouldn't it be?" But this isn't candid of Laetitia, whose speech and kiss had certainly appeared to impute suppressed insight, or penetration, or sly-pussness, or something of that sort to her young friend. But with an implied claim to rights of insight, on her own account, from seniority. Sally is _froissee_ at this, but not beyond jerking the topic into a new light. "Of course, it's their being grown up that makes one stare so. If it wasn't for that...." But this gives away her case, surrenders all claim to her equality with Laetitia's twenty-four years. The advantage is caught at meanly. "That's only because you're a baby, dear. Wait till you're ten years older, and thirty-eight won't seem so old. I suppose your mother's about that?" "Mother? Why, she's nearly thirty-nine!" "And Mr. Fenwick?" "Oh, _he's_ forty-one. _Quite!_ Because we talked it all over, and made out they were over eighty between them." "Who talked it over?" "Why, him and her and me, of course. Last night." "Who did you have, Sally dear?" "Only ourselves, and Dr. Prosy and his Goody mother." "I thought Mr. Fenwick----" "I counted him in with us--mother and me and the Major." "Oh, you counted him in?" "Why shouldn't I count him in, if I like?" "Why not? And you do like?" There is an appearance of irritating sagacity about Sally's friend. "What did Dr. Vereker say, Sally dear?" "Doc-tor Vereker! Dr. Prosy. Prosy's not a referee--it was no concern of his! Besides--they'd gone." "Who'd gone?" "Dr. Prosy and his old hen of a mother. Well, Tishy dear, she _is_ like that. Comes wobbling down on you as if you were a chicken! I hope you don't think mother and I and Mr. Fenwick would talk about how old we were added together, with old Goody Prosy in it!" "Of course not, dear!" "Oh, Tishy dear, how aggravating you are! Now do please don't be penetrating. You know you're trying to get at something; and there's nothing to get at. It was perfectly natural. Only, of course, we should never dream of talking about how old before people and their gossipy old mothers." "Of course not, dear!"