Aunt Anne required a good many explanations. She had never received a niece before at seven o’clock in the evening without a tooth-brush. It would have been difficult for her to grasp that the survivors of earthquakes are denuded of this effective article of toilette, and she knew that Little Ticklington was not an earthquake district. She followed every explanation given by Elsie with—“Still I can’t quite see, dear, how you have arrived without your night things. I am very glad to see you, of course, but it all sounds so precipitate.” It was on the edge of this precipice that Elsie fell asleep. She wisely kept Mr. Gubbins for breakfast. When they were eating kidneys and bacon—after porridge, but before marmalade—she confessed to her Aunt Anne that she had not only run away from the oratorio because Miss Strickland did not like oratorios, but because Mr. Gubbins was with her and Miss Strickland would have liked his presence even less than an oratorio. Aunt Anne laid down her knife and fork and gazed at Elsie—the mystery was solved. It had been a mystery—it was now simply a crime. Aunt Anne had not understood before why Miss Strickland should object to certain parts of the Bible set to music. She was herself doubtful of Opera, even if it had not been so expensive; but sacred music was surely both educational and devout, and not even very interesting. It was unreasonable for a high school teacher to object to such a performance—but a young man! Her gaze was awful, and Elsie shuddered under it, and swallowing her tea too hurriedly, choked. When she had stopped choking, Aunt Anne said portentously, “Is Mr. Gubbins a young man, Elsie?” Elsie said that that depended on what you meant by young; she had known him for years and years, and he had grey hair and wore spectacles. “Spectacles,” said Aunt Anne solemnly, “do not prevent youth though they may disguise it. Grey hair is neither here nor there. Am I to gather that there is some understanding between you and this—this Mr. Gubbins, Elsie—perhaps unknown to your dear parents?” Elsie wriggled and twisted. “They wouldn’t mind him,” she murmured forlornly. “At least I don’t think so. Of course we understand each other in a way. I play his accompaniments.” “Elsie, you are hedging!” exclaimed Aunt Anne majestically. “I must see this young man for myself.” Elsie was not really hedging; if she had seen a hedge she would most certainly have taken shelter under it, but she was not aware of the exact danger her aunt supposed her to be avoiding. She felt that there was something ominous in the air connected with Mr. Gubbins, and she wriggled to appease it. The idea of marriage conveyed nothing personal to Elsie. Marriage was merely something that happened to other people—with a cake. She helped herself to marmalade and hoped that Peter Gubbins would blow over.