"Good Lord," said Mr. Townshend, stooping to pick up Elizabeth's needlework which in her excitement had fallen on the rug, "this is not Aunt Alice----" "No," said Elizabeth, "it's my own wickedness. The fact is, I was jealous--Aunt Alice seemed so devoted to you, and quoted you, and admired everything about you so much, and I thought that in praising you she was 'lychtlying' my brothers, so of course I didn't like you. Yes, that's the kind of jealous creature I am." The door opened, and Ellen came in with a tray on which stood glasses, a jug of milk, a syphon, and a biscuit-box. She laid it on a table beside her mistress and asked if anything else was needed and on being told "No," said good-night and made her demure exit. "Pretend you've known me seven years, and put a log on the fire," Elizabeth asked her guest. He did as he was bid, and remained standing at the mantelpiece looking at the picture which hung above it. "Your mother, isn't it?" he asked. "She was beautiful; Aunt Alice has often told me of her." He looked in silence for a minute, and then went back to his chair and lit another cigarette. "I never knew my mother, and I only remember my father dimly. I was only her husband's nephew, but Aunt Alice has had to stand for all my home-people, and no one knows except myself how successful she has been." "She is the most golden-hearted person," said Elizabeth. "I don't believe she ever has a thought that isn't kind and gentle and sincere. I am so glad you had her--and that she had you. One can't help seeing what you have meant to her...." Then a spark of laughter lit in Elizabeth's grey eyes. "Don't you love the way her sentences never end? just trail deliciously away ... and her descriptions of people?--'such charming people, _such_ staunch Conservatives and he plays the violin so beautifully.'" Arthur Townshend laughed in the way that one laughs at something that, though funny, is almost too dear to be laughed at. "That is exactly like her," he said. "Was your mother at all like her sister?"