Part 10 (1/2)

”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 workmans.h.i.+p. 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.

”Wis.h.i.+ng 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.”