"Is he Vavasour, of Harlington?"
"Yes, that's his home, near Lee on the Solent."
"But surely he is quite an infant."
"I don't know what you mean by an infant, Aunt Anne. He is two years
older than me, and he simply _loves_ poetry."
"And is he as nice as Mr. Wilson?"
"Very, _very_ nice."
Further lights were bursting in. The illumination momentarily staggered
me.
"H'm. Dulcie, you will now attend to what I tell you."
"Yes, yes, Aunt Anne. I always do."
"Now, mind you don't make eyes at Mr. Wilson, who is Joan's friend. That
is what horrid little cats of girls do, not what I expect of _you_.
Chickens draw people together in a way, ahem! you don't understand,
but--you will later on."
"Like poetry does?" Dulcie hazarded.
"Just like poetry. And one thing more. Don't speak to Mr. Vavasour
unless he speaks to you."
"No, no, Aunt Anne. I never do."
Once again I must compress. As the summer advanced, Gertrude, nose down
in full cry on the track, unfolded to me a project which only needed my
co-operation.
I reminded her that I never co-operated, but she paid no attention, and
said she wished to send the children with Joan and Dulcie to the seaside
for a month, while she watched over Jimmy during his annual visit to
Harrogate. The children required a change.