"It's a very good thing we found it out," said Felicity. "But how on earth does Bertie know?" "He knows everything--about people, I mean--and he's always right. In fact, he sent you a message to ask you to be very careful, and said he'd come and see you about it." "Rather cool! It seems I can't have _any_ secret to myself now," panted Mrs. Ogilvie. "Well, you see, dear, you _did_ ask me to get all the information I could, and after all I only told Bertie you _met_ Mr. Ferguson. He guessed that he would fall in love with you, and bring you a bouquet early in the morning, and write you a lot of letters about philosophy." "How did he know?" "Well, if you don't mind my saying so, dear, it's because it's what he always does." Vera began to laugh. "Tell Bertie he need not trouble to call about it, I'd rather forget it." "Oh, of course he won't _now_!" "He doesn't know, then, that I was in love with him? Besides, I wasn't." "Certainly he doesn't. Besides, you weren't." "I hate the sight of that bouquet," said Vera. "Yes, let's send it away; and now come for a drive with me." "All right, dear. I say, couldn't we countermand those philosophical books?" "Yes, of course we will. What do you feel you'd like instead?" "Oh, something by Pett Ridge," said Vera, recklessly. CHAPTER XXVII AUNT WILLIAM'S DAY It was a chilly spring afternoon and Aunt William was seated by the fire doing wool-work, for she disapproved of the idle habits of the present day and thought that a lady should always have her fingers employed in some way; not, of course, either with cards or cigarettes. She was getting on steadily with the foot-stool she was making; a neat design of a fox's head with a background of green leaves. In the course of her life Aunt William had done many, many miles of wool-work. It was neither embroidery nor tapestry; it was made on canvas with what is known for some mysterious reason as Berlin wool; and was so simple that it used to be called the Idiot Stitch; but the curious elaboration of the design and sort of dignified middle-Victorian futility about it cast a glamour over the whole, and dispelled any association of idiocy from the complete work. A banner screen was now in front of the fire, which Aunt William had worked during a winter at St. Leonards, and which represented enormous squashed roses like purple cauliflowers, with a red-brown background--a shade called, in her youth, Bismarck brown, and for which she always retained a certain weakness.