In fact," she went on, "so far as I'm concerned it ought to run, 'Here
beginneth Aunt Maria.' You see, I have got to go and live with her
to-morrow."

Anthony stopped and looked at her.

"What the devil do you mean?" he asked.

"What I say. She took a fancy to me and she wants a companion--someone
to do her errands and read to her at night and look after the pug dog
and so forth. And she will pay me thirty pounds a year with my board and
dresses. And" (with gathering emphasis) "we cannot afford to offend her
who have half lived upon her alms and old clothes for so many years.
And, in short, Dad and my mother thought it best that I should go, since
Joyce can take my place, and at any rate it will be a mouth less to feed
at home. So I am going to-morrow morning by the carrier's cart."

"Going?" gasped Anthony. "Where to?"

"To London first, then to Paris, then to Italy to winter at Rome, and
then goodness knows where. You see, my Aunt Maria has wanted to travel
all her life, but Uncle Samuel, who was born in Putney, feared the sea
and lived and died in Putney in the very house in which he was born. Now
Aunt Maria wants a change and means to have it."

Then Anthony broke out.

"Damn the old woman! Why can't she take her change in Italy or wherever
she wishes, and leave you alone?"

"Anthony!" said Barbara in a scandalised voice. "What do you mean,
Anthony, by using such dreadful language about my aunt?"

"What do I mean? Well" (this with the recklessness of despair), "if you
want to know, I mean that I can't bear your going away."

"If my parents," began Barbara steadily----

"What have your parents to do with it? I'm not your parents, I'm
your----"

Barbara looked at him in remonstrance.

"--old friend, played together in childhood, you know the kind of thing.
In short, I don't want you to go to Italy with Lady Thompson. I want you
to stop here."

"Why, Anthony? I thought you told me you were going to live in chambers
in London and read for the Bar."

"Well, London isn't Italy, and one doesn't eat dinners at Lincoln's
Inn all the year round, one comes home sometimes. And heaven knows whom
you'll meet in those places or what tricks that horrible old aunt of
yours will be playing with you. Oh! it's wicked! How can you desert your
poor father and mother in this way, to say nothing of your sisters? I
never thought you were so hard-hearted."

"Anthony," said Barbara in a gentle voice, "do you know what we h