She sat down on the sofa, and leaned back, looking at him with her
pretty, weary, dreary, young, blue eyes.
'It seems such a long time since I saw you,' said Vincy. 'You're tired;
I wish I had a lift.'
'I am tired,' she spoke in rather a hoarse voice always. 'And I ought
not to stop long.'
'Oh, stay a minute longer, won't you?' he asked.
'Well, I like that! I've only just this moment arrived!'
'Oh, Mavis, don't say that! Have some tea.'
He waited on her till she looked brighter.
'How is Aunt Jessie?'
'Aunt Jessie's been rather ill.'
'Still that nasty pain?' asked Vincy.
She stared at him, then laughed.
'As if you remember anything about it.'
'Oh, Mavis! I do remember it. I remember what was the matter with her
quite well.'
'I bet you don't. What was it?' she asked, with childish eagerness.
'It was that wind round the heart that she gets sometimes. She told me
about it. Nothing seems to shift it, either.'
Mavis laughed--hoarse, childlike laughter that brought tears to her
eyes.
'It's a shame to make fun of Aunt Jessie; she's a very, very good
sort.'
'Oh, good gracious, Mavis, if it comes to sorts, I'm sure she's quite
at the top of the tree. But don't let's bother about her now.'
'What _do_ you want to bother about?'
'Couldn't you come out and dine with me, Mavis? It would be a
change'--he was going to say 'for you', but altered it--'for me.'
'Oh no, Vincy; you can't take me out to dinner.
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