“I say, Tony, this is evidently Aunt Maxwell's own drawing-room. It has all the peculiar grimness of an old lady's sanctum; and I declare that fat old dog, snoring away on the rug, looks like a relation.” While he stooped down to examine the creature more closely, the door opened, and Mrs. Maxwell, dressed in bonnet and shawl, and with a small garden watering-pot in her hand, entered. She only saw Tony; and, running towards him with her open hand, said, “You naughty boy, did n't I tell you not to come here?” Tony blushed deeply, and blurted something about being told or ordered to come by Mrs. Trafford. “Well, well; it does n't matter now; there 's no danger. It's not 'catching,' the doctor says, and she'll be up tomorrow. Dear me! and who is this?” The latter question was addressed to Skeffy, who had just risen from his knees. “Mr. Skeffington Darner, ma'am,” said Tony. “And who are you, then?” “Tony Butler: I thought you knew me.” “To be sure I do, and delighted to see you too. And this Pickle is Skeff, is he?” “Dear aunt, let me embrace you,” cried Skeffy, rushing rapturously into her arms. “Well, I declare!” said the old lady, looking from one to the other; “I thought, if it was you, Skeff, what a great fine tall man you had grown; and there you are, the same little creature I saw you last.” “Little, aunt! what do you mean by little? Standard of the Line! In France I should be a Grenadier!” The old lady laughed heartily at the haughty air with which he drew himself up and threw forward his chest as he spoke. “What a nice parrot you have sent me! but I can't make out what it is he says.” “He says, 'Don't you wish you may get it?' aunt.” “Ah! so it is; and he means luncheon, I 'm sure, which is just coming on the table. I hope you are both very hungry?” “I ought to be, aunt. It's a long drive from the Causeway here.--Hold your tongue, you dog,” whispered he to Tony; “say nothing about the three breakfasts on the road, or I shall be disgraced.” “And how is your mother, Mr. Tony? I hope she has good health. Give me your arm to the dining-room; Pickle will take care of himself. This is a sickly season. The poor dear Commodore fell ill! and though the weather is so severe, woodcocks very scarce,--there's a step here,--and all so frightened for fear of the scarlatina that they run away; and I really wanted you here to introduce you to--who was it?--not Mrs. Craycroft, was it? Tell Mrs. Trafford luncheon is ready, Groves, and say Mr. Butler is here. She doesn't know you, Pickle. Maybe you don't like to be called Pickle now?” “Of course I do, aunt; it reminds me of long ago,” said he, with an air of emotion. “By the way, it was George, and not you, I used to call Pickle,--poor George, that went to Bombay.” “Ah, yes; he was India Pickle, aunt, and you used to call me Piccalilli!”