"I do wish," she cried, "Uncle Timothy wouldn't talk about what doesn't
concern him!"
Aunt Juley rose to the full height of her tall figure.
"He never talks about what doesn't concern him," she said.
June was instantly compunctious; she ran to her aunt and kissed her.
"I'm very sorry, auntie; but I wish they'd let Irene alone."
Aunt Juley, unable to think of anything further on the subject that
would be suitable, was silent; she prepared for departure, hooking her
black silk cape across her chest, and, taking up her green reticule:
"And how is your dear grandfather?" she asked in the hall, "I expect
he's very lonely now that all your time is taken up with Mr. Bosinney."
She bent and kissed her niece hungrily, and with little, mincing steps
passed away.
The tears sprang up in June's eyes; running into the little study,
where Bosinney was sitting at the table drawing birds on the back of an
envelope, she sank down by his side and cried:
"Oh, Phil! it's all so horrid!" Her heart was as warm as the colour of
her hair.
On the following Sunday morning, while Soames was shaving, a message was
brought him to the effect that Mr. Bosinney was below, and would be glad
to see him. Opening the door into his wife's room, he said:
"Bosinney's downstairs.
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