"Here's the doctor!" said Direxia. "I expect he'll keep right on coming till he finds you sick."

"That's what he will do!" said Geoffrey. "No chance for me to-day, though, I see. How do you do, Mrs. Tree? I think it is hardly respectable for you to look so well. Can't you give me one little symptom? not a tiny crick in your back? you ought to have one, sitting in that chair."

Mrs. Tree was sitting bolt upright in an ancient straight-backed chair of curious workmanship. It was too high for her, so her little feet, of which she was inordinately vain, rested on a ha.s.sock of crimson tapestry. She wore white silk stockings, and slippers of cinnamon-coloured satin to match her gown. A raffled black silk ap.r.o.n, a net kerchief pinned with a quaint diamond brooch, and a cap suggesting the Corinthian Order, completed her costume. Her face was netted close with fine wrinkles, but there was no sign of age in her bright dark eyes.

"Never you trouble yourself about my cheer!" said the old lady with some severity. "Sit down in one yourself--there are plenty of lolloping ones if your back's weak--and tell me what mischief you have been up to lately. I wouldn't trust you round the corner."

"You'll break my heart some day," said Geoffrey, with a heavy sigh; "and then you will be sorry, Mrs. Tree. Mischief? Let me see! I set Jim Arthur's collar-bone this morning; do you care about Jim Arthur? he fell off his bicycle against a stone wall."

"Serve him right, too!" said Mrs. Tree. "Riding that nasty thing, running folks down and scaring their horses. I'd put 'em all in the bonfire-pile if I was Town Council. Your turn will come some day, young man, for all you go spinning along like a spool of cotton. How's the girls?"

She rang the bell, and Direxia appeared.

"Bring the cake and sherry!" she said. "It's a shame to spoil boys, but when they're spoilt already, there's less harm done. How's the girls?"

Geoffrey reported a clean bill of health, so far as Miss Phoebe and Miss Vesta were concerned. "I really am proud of Miss Phoebe!" he said.

"She says she feels ten years younger than she did three months ago, and I think it's true."

"Phoebe has no call to feel ten years younger!" said Mrs. Tree, shortly. "She's a very suitable age as it is. I don't like to see a cat play kitten, any more than I like to see a kitten play cat. How's the child?"

"I should like to see Miss Phoebe playing kitten!" said Geoffrey, his eyes dancing. "It would be something to remember. What child, Mrs.

Tree?"

"The little girl; little Vesta. Is she coming out of her tantrums, think?"

"She--is a great deal better, certainly," said Geoffrey. "I hope--I feel sure that she will recover entirely in time. But you must not call her trouble tantrums, Mrs. Tree, really. Neurasthenia is a recognised form of--"

"You must have looked quite pretty when you was short-coated!" said the old lady, irrelevantly. "Have some wine? the cake is too rich for you, but you may have just a crumb."

"You must have been the wickedest thing alive when you were eighteen!"

said Geoffrey, pouring out the amber sherry into a wonderful gilt gla.s.s. "I wish Direxia would stay in the room and matronise me; I'm afraid, I tell you."

"If Direxia had nothing better to do, I'd send her packing," said Mrs.

Tree. "Here!"

They touched gla.s.ses solemnly.

"Wishing you luck in a wife!" said the old lady.

"Good gracious!" cried Geoffrey.

"It's what you need, young man, and you'd better be looking out for one. There must be some one would have you, and any wife is better than none."

She looked up, though not at Geoffrey, and a twinkle came into her eyes. "Do you call little Vesta pretty, now?" she asked.

"Not pretty," said Geoffrey; "that is not the word. I--"

"Then you'd better not call her anything," said Mrs. Tree, "for she's in the door behind ye."

Geoffrey started violently, and turned around. Vesta was standing framed in the dark doorway. The clear whiteness of her beauty had never seemed more wonderful. The faint rose in her cheeks only made the white more radiant; her eyes were no longer agate-like, but soft and full of light; only her smile remained the same, shadowy, elusive, a smile in a dream.

When the young doctor remembered his manners and rose to his feet--after all, it was only a moment or two--he saw that Miss Vesta was standing behind her niece, a little gray figure melting into the gloom of the twilight hall. The two now entered the room together.

"Aunt Vesta wanted you to see my new hat, Aunt Tree," said the girl.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes!" said Miss Vesta, coming forward timidly. "Good evening, Aunt Marcia. Oh, good evening to you, Doctor Strong. The hat seemed to me so pretty, and you are always so kindly interested, Aunt Marcia! I ought to apologise to you, Doctor Strong, for introducing such a subject."

"Vesta, don't twitter!" said Mrs. Tree. "Is there anything improper about the hat? It's very well, child, very well. I always liked a scoop myself, but folks don't know much nowadays. What do you think of it, young man?"

Geoffrey thought it looked like a lunar halo, but he did not say so; he said something prim and conventional about its being very pretty and becoming.

"Are you going to sit down?" asked Mrs. Tree. "I can't abide to see folks standing round as if they was hat-poles."

Miss Vesta slipped into a seat, but the younger Vesta shook her head.

"I must go on!" she said. "Aunt Phoebe is expecting a letter, and I must tell her that there is none."

"Yes, dear, yes!" said Miss Vesta. "Your Aunt Phoebe will be impatient, doubtless; you are right. And perhaps it will be best for me, too--"

she half rose, but Mrs. Tree pulled her down again without ceremony.

"You stay here, Vesta!" she commanded. "I want to see you. But you"--she turned to Geoffrey, who had remained standing--"can go along with the child, if you're a mind to. You'll get nothing more out of me, I tell ye."

"I am going to send you a measles bacillus to-morrow morning," said the young doctor. "You must take it in your coffee, and then you will want to see me every day. Good-bye, Mrs. Tree! some day you will be sorry for your cruelty. Miss Vesta--till tea-time!"

Aunt and niece watched the young couple in silence as they walked along the street. Both walked well; it was a pleasure to see them move. He was tall enough to justify the little courteous bend of the head, but not enough to make her anxious about the top of her hat--if she ever had such anxieties.

"Well!" said Mrs. Tree, suddenly.

Miss Vesta started. "Yes, dear Aunt Marcia!" she said. "Yes, certainly; I am here."

"They make a pretty couple, don't they?" said the old lady. "If she would come out of her tantrums,--hey, Vesta?"

"Oh, Aunt Marcia!" said Miss Vesta, softly. She blushed very pink, and looked round the room with a furtive, frightened glance.

"No, there's no one behind the sofa," said Mrs. Tree; "and there's no one under the big chair, and Phoebe is safe at home with her knitting, and the best place for her." (Mrs. Tree did not "get on" with her niece Phoebe.) "There's no use in looking like a scared pigeon, Vesta Blyth.

I say they make a pretty couple, and I say they would make a pretty couple coming out of church together. I'd give her my Mechelin flounces; you'll never want 'em."

"Oh, Aunt Marcia!" said dear Miss Vesta, clasping her soft hands. "If it might be the Lord's will--"

"The Lord likes to be helped along once in a while!" said Mrs. Tree.

"Don't tell me! I wasn't born yesterday." And this statement was not to be controverted.

CHAPTER X.