“Not a bit, Auntie. I’m not really tired, either. It’s just the effect of the journey. How are you? and you, father?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” Miss Arden said.

“We miss our little girl,” Lawrence added, in a melancholy voice. “And where is my son-in-law?”

Elizabeth gave an excited little laugh. She was seated between them on the sofa, one hand held by Miss Arden, the other by Lawrence.

“Isn’t he dreadful to be so late? He went to see Mater and only got back a few minutes ago. However, he promised to hurry. I want you to myself for a bit.” She squeezed their hands. “It’s so lovely to be back and to see you both again!”

“How did you enjoy Florence?” Lawrence asked.

“Yes, tell us all about it!” begged Miss Arden.

“Oh, it was beautiful! I can’t tell you how beautiful! Rome too, in a different way. And Paris! I took heaps of snapshots. I’ll show them to you after dinner. Stephen was awfully rude about my photography. He says I shall develop into an album-fiend. Isn’t it horrid of him? Auntie, I’ve liked cod to-day for the first time! They had it on the train, and it thrilled me. Only I daren’t say so to Stephen because he hates it.” So she chattered, switching from one triviality to another, conscious of being unnatural. She felt that she was talking somewhat as Stephen talked, and wondered why. It was curious that she should do it to the Ardens and not to him.

Then Stephen came downstairs, two at a time, and Elizabeth thought how tall and good-looking he was, and how well-tailored.

“Here you are!” she said. “I’ve been telling them about my snapshots.”

Stephen kissed Miss Arden and shook hands with Lawrence, warmly.

“How jolly to see you again! Don’t encourage ’Lisbeth, I implore you! She produces snapshot after snapshot, points to a misshapen splosh in the background, and says, ‘And that’s Stephen!’ Do you like Martini, Miss Arden, or would you prefer a vermouth?”

“Nothing for me, thank you, Stephen,” she answered.

“’Lisbeth?” He asked her out of courtesy; she never drank cocktails.

“Vermouth, please, Stephen,” she said, as though she had been in the habit of imbibing it for years.

Dinner was a merry function that evening; they all talked, and together. It seemed to Elizabeth that she had seldom been so bright in conversation. Perhaps it was the cocktail, and the wicked sparkle of champagne in her glass. After dinner Stephen took Lawrence into the billiard-room, and Elizabeth and her aunt went upstairs for a quiet talk.

They sat before the fire in Elizabeth’s room, and constraint fell upon them. Elizabeth was reduced to producing her snapshots.

“Our little girl has quite blossomed forth,” Lawrence said on the way home. Then, as Miss Arden was silent, he added in a hurt tone, “Don’t you think so?”