"So she was baffled." "Yes, but she has instincts, though she's so stupid. She knew there was something up. And then when we met you--oh, I _am_ so glad the dog's all right--when we met you I knew she thought you'd something to do with my being out so early in the morning, and then you blushed." "If I did," he said, "I wasn't the only one." "Oh, I know," she said, "but I don't suppose I should have if you hadn't. Though unjust suspicions like that are enough to make anybody blush. Yes, they were unjust because you had nothing to do with my going out the first time--why, I didn't even know there _was_ a you. And now all the fat's in the fire, and she's taking me to Ireland or Scotland to-morrow--she won't say which. And I couldn't bear to go and have you think I'd made an appointment and not kept it. It's so unbusiness-like to break appointments," she said. "Does she suppose, then, that we--that I am--that you have--that I should--?" "I don't know what she supposes. At least I do. But it's too silly. Now I've explained everything. Good-by. I'm glad you found the handkerchief--and I'm _awfully_ glad about Charles." "I didn't know you knew his name." "The stableman said it when the dog ran between his knees and nearly knocked him down. It's a darling dog--but isn't it strong! Good-by!" She held out her hand. "Good-by," she said, again. "No," said he, and held the hand. There was a little pause. "Say good-by," she said. "Indeed I must go." "Why?" he asked, releasing the hand. "I've said everything there was to say--I mean, what I came to say." "There's a very great deal that you haven't told me. I don't understand. Who does your aunt think I am?" "I would rather not tell you; you'd only laugh." "But please tell me. I shouldn't." A troubled silence answered him. "Look here," he said, "I know there's a lot you haven't told me. Do tell me, and let me help you, if I can. You're worried and unhappy. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me. Things look different when you've put them into words. First of all, tell me who your aunt thought I was." She sat down again with the air of definite decision. "Very well," she said, "if you will have it, she thought you were the piano-tuner. Why don't you laugh?" "I'm not amused yet," he said. "What piano-tuner? And why should he--why should you--" "The piano-tuner is a fence," she said, "and she thinks you're it." "I don't understand a word you're saying." "I don't care," she said, desperately. "I'll tell you the whole silly story and you can laugh, if you like. I shan't be offended. Last autumn father brought a man to lunch, quite a nice man--sensible, middle-aged, very well off--and next day he told me the man had proposed for me, and I'd better take him. He'd accepted for me." "Good heavens!" said Edward, "I thought it was only in the _Family Herald_ that such fathers existed."