"Did I make epigrams? How funny! I didn't know I could." She came a little nearer. Woodville said in a low voice, rather quickly-- "You looked really divine just now through the window, with the hyacinths in your hands--like the goddess of something or other--spring, I suppose.... When I look at you, I understand all the old poetry. _To Amaryllis_ and Herrick--and--you know." "Dear Frank!... Am I to find an address?" "You can't, dearest. There is no address. Besides, they've moved. And I found it myself ever so long ago." She laughed. "Oh, Frank!" Woodville put his hand out and took hers. "Oh, don't go just yet!" he said imploringly. "Why, you told me to go away just now--or to the other side of the room!" "Ah, but that was ages ago! Why, you haven't _been_ here two minutes! You can't be in such a hurry.... Anyhow, come here a second." She obeyed, and leant over his shoulder.... Then he said abruptly-- "Yes, you had better go." Blushing, she glided away at once, without another word. Woodville remained at the desk, looking a little pale, and frowning. He had a theory that he was a very scrupulous man, with a high sense of honour. It was a worrying theory. With a sigh he returned to the invitation cards. CHAPTER IV "AUNT WILLIAM" Mrs. William Crofton, the widow of Sir James's brother, was, in her own way, quite a personage in London; at least, in the London that she knew. We have already seen her in the photograph in Savile's possession taken some forty years ago (by Mayall and Son, at Brighton). She was now an elderly lady, and still occupied the large ugly house in South Audley Street, where the children remembered their Uncle Mary. Felicity, Sylvia, and Savile had chosen to reverse the order in which they were told to speak of their uncle and aunt. Felicity had pointed out that not only was Aunt William more like an uncle, but that by this ingenious device they dodged a kind of history lesson. The great object always was to counteract carefully any information conveyed to them during the time of their education. All historians and teachers alike were regarded as natural enemies from Pinnock to Plato. On the same principle, Savile would never eat _Reading_ biscuits, because he feared that some form of condensed study was being insidiously introduced into the system. Boys had to be on their guard against any treachery of that kind.