"It's utterly stupid at Newcastle," breaks in Vee. "Nothing but a lot of black soldiers, and a few fat English officers, and seeing the same dozen people at teas three times a week." "Besides," I puts in, "it would be a long jump for me to run down for over Sunday, wouldn't it?" "How unreasonable of you both," says Auntie. "Now, you young people have been together a great deal of late. You can well afford to be separated for a few months." I goes choky in the throat. There was a lot of points I wanted to make, but I couldn't seem to state 'em fast enough. All I can get out is: "But--but see here; we--we was sort of plannin' to--to be--" "Nonsense!" cuts in Auntie. "You are hardly more than children, either of you. It's absurd enough of you becoming engaged. But beyond that-- Oh, not for years and years." Oh, yes, there was a lot more to the debate--on our side. I registered strong, with some cuttin' remark about bein' treated like a scrap of paper. As for Auntie, she simply stands pat. "Not for years and years." That's where her argument begins and ends. Not that she's messy about it, or intends to be mean. She simply don't take our little plans serious. They don't count. "There, there!" says she. "We'll say no more about it," and sails off to sort out the dresses she'll want to stow in her trunk. "Huh!" says I, glancin' at Vee. "Merry idea of hers, eh? Years and years! Talks like she thought gettin' married was some game like issuin' long-term bonds maturin' about 1950." "If you only knew how stupid and dull it's going to be for me there!" says Vee, poutin'. "With you that far off," says I, "New York ain't goin' to seem so gay for a certain party." "I suppose I must go, though," says Vee. "I don't get it," says I. "Oh, but I must," says she. Durin' the next week we talked it over a lot; but, so far as I can remember, we only said about the same thing. It came out that this friend of Auntie's was one that Vee never could stand for, anyway: a giddy old dame who kalsomined her face, was free with advice on bringin' up nieces, and was a bridge and embroidery fiend. "And I shall be left to sit around," says Vee, "bored stiff." I knew it wasn't just a whim of hers; for one evening along towards the last, I found her with her eyelids red. "Been cryin'?" I asks. "A little," says Vee. "Silly thing to do when one's packing." "See here, Vee," says I; "I ought to be doing something about this." "But you can't," says she. "No one can. I must trot along with Auntie, just as I always have, and stay until--until she's ready to come back." "Then it'll be a case of movin' on somewhere for the summer, I expect--Nova Scotia or Iceland?" says I. Vee nods and lets out a sigh. "If we was a pair of wild ducks, now," says I.