“Old thtupid,” cried Dorrie in an aggrieved voice, “you weren’t lithening.” She smoothed her baby fingers up and down my face, coaxing me to give her my attention. “Sorry, little lady, but I must be going. You must tell me all about it some other time.” “All wite,” she acquiesced contentedly; “it’s a pwomith.” Vi accompanied me to the door. “To-night.” “To-night.” “What wath you thaying?” asked Dorrie. “Nothing, my darling.” My grandmother was sitting behind her counter, knitting, when I entered. She sank her chin and looked at me humorously over her spectacles. “Well, my man of business, did she take your advice?” “Of course. Why shouldn’t she? She’s seen my grannie, and knows how she’s profited by it.” “Clever boy,” she retorted. “Who made your shirt? When a man of business is born among the Cardovers, pears’ll grow on pines. Look at your father. Look at the Spuffler. Look at yourself. I hope she won’t act on it. What was it?” “Can’t tell you now. I find I’ve got to run up to London to-night and I’ve promised to take Ruthie to Yarminster. There’s only just time.” “What’s takin’ you to London? You didn’t say anythin’ about it this marnin’.” She dropped her knitting in her lap. “Dante, is it anythin’ to do with her?” “Partly.” She beckoned me nearer to her. I leant over the counter. She glanced meaningly towards the door of the keeping-room. I stooped lower till our heads nearly touched. “You’d better stay there, laddie,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinkin’ and usin’ me eyes. This ain’t no place fur you at present. She’s gettin’ too fond of you and you of her. I know.” She nodded. “I’ve been through it. I watched your pa at it.” “At what?” “At what you and Mrs. Carpenter are doin’. Don’t pretend you’re a fool, Dante, ’cause you’re not--and neither is your old grannie.” Just then Ruthita looked out of the keeping-room. I was glad of the excuse to cut this dangerous conversation short. “Hurry up, Ruthie; get on your togs. I’m going to drive you over to Yarminster.” When she had gone, my grandmother turned to me again. “And there’s another of ’em. Lovers can’t keep their secrets to theirselves nohow--they give theirselves away with every breath. Did ye see the way she flushed wi’ pleasure? She’s a tender little maid. If you made her unhappy, though she’s none o’ my body, I’d never forgive ye, Dante. If you don’t intend to marry ’er, be careful.” “Rubbish,” I exclaimed and went out into the street to fetch round a dog-cart from the livery-stables. “Aye, rubbish is well enough,” was my grandmother’s final retort; “but broken eggs can’t be mended. No more can broken hearts.”