William resented automobiles as much as she disliked
picture postcards, week-ends, musical comedies, and bridge.

Savile walked up and down the enormous room, lost in thought, and
scarcely observing his surroundings. He smiled slightly as he
contemplated the portrait of Uncle Mary, who was represented as leaning
rather weakly for support against a pedestal that looked by no means
secure, with a heavy curtain and a lowering sky in the background.

"Jove! what short frock-coats those chaps wore!" thought Savile. "What
rotters they must have been!"

* * * * *

"And so Lord Chetwode is out of town again?" Aunt William said, as they
sat over dessert.

"Gone to Newmarket."

"I see in the _Morning Post_ that your sister Sylvia was at Lady
Gaskaine's last night. I suppose she was the belle of the ball." She
offered him some preserved ginger.

"No, she wasn't. There's no such thing as a belle of the ball now, Aunt
William. She danced with Heath and Broughton, of course, and Caldrey,
and those chaps. Broughton took her to supper."

Aunt William seemed gratified.

"Curious! I recollect Lord Broughton in kilts when he was a little
toddling pet of seven! His father was considered one of the most
fascinating men of his day, my dear. What a beautiful place Broughton
Hall is!" She pressed another orange on him.

"Oh, Sylvia's all right," said Savile, impartially declining the fruit
and producing an aluminium cigarette-case. Aunt William, pretending not
to see it, passed him the matches as if in a fit of absence of mind. As
a matter of fact, Savile was really more at home with Aunt William than
with any one, even his sisters.

"And now, my dear boy, tell me about yourself."

Savile took out of his pocket the envelope containing her photograph.

"I say, I took this out of the album last time I came," he said
apologetically.

Aunt William almost blushed. She was genuinely flattered.

"But what's that--that green book I see in your pocket? I suppose it's
Euclid, or Greek, or something you're learning."

"No, it's not; it's poetry. A ripping poem I've just found out. I know
you like that sort of rot, so I brought it for you."

Her face softened. Savile was the only person who knew her romantic
side.

"A poem!" she said in a lowered voice. "Oh, what is it about?"

"Oh, about irises, and how 'In the Spring a Young Man's Fancy,' that
sort of thing--Tennyson, you know."

"Tennyson!" excla