“Well, even if I did and, mind you, I’m not saying that I do, it is no worse for my health than dancing all night, is it? I’m very fond of Aunt Flora, and I’d do more than that for her.” “She has added years to your life; the gay flitting-about Sophy, with her pretty kittenish ways and harmless claws, has been thrust in a sack—and drowned!” “Well, I do think you might have given her Christian burial,” protested Sophy with a laugh. “Christian burial brings me to the Marriage Service. What do you think—that great stupid Irishman, has at last blundered out a proposal, and in me,” rising and making a curtsey, “you behold the future Mrs. Patrick FitzGerald.” “Oh, Fuchsia!” jumping up to embrace her, “I do congratulate you, and I do hope you will be very happy.” “Yes, I believe we shall. I have money and he——” she hesitated, and Sophy added: “Has a warm, kind heart.” “Oh, well, I was about to say _looks_, but I’ll throw in the heart as well! Next week I am going up to Calcutta to see about the trousseau and business. I’m real sorry to be the means of smashing up the Chummery Quartette.” “And when does the blow fall?” “Not for some time; Patsy has asked for a long day.” “Fuchsia!” “Well, no, it’s not that; but he’s obliged to finish some inspections. He really is fond of me—I dare say he’s not as fond of me as Shafto is of someone! But _his_ is a more serious, rigid character. If someone would smile, he would melt like a shovelful of snow on a coal fire!” “My dear Fuchsia, do give your imagination a rest.” “Maybe you are right, and my tongue, too. I’ve only just one thing more to say,” she paused and walked into the veranda in silence. In silence Sophy followed her down to the car and, as she tucked in the knee-sheet, she raised her eyes and asked: “What is this wonderful last word?” “That I think ‘Sophy Shafto’ would be a nice easy name to say.” In another second Fuchsia’s car had panted away and nothing remained of her visit but a cloud of red dust. CHAPTER XXXIII SOPHY