Vee's goin' along, too,
are you?"

"Why, certainly," says she. "Verona could not stay here alone. And at
this season the mountains of Jamaica are--"

"It's utterly stupid at Newcastle," breaks in Vee. "Nothing but a lot
of black soldiers, and a few fat English officers, and seeing the same
dozen people at teas three times a week."

"Besides," I puts in, "it would be a long jump for me to run down for
over Sunday, wouldn't it?"

"How unreasonable of you both," says Auntie. "Now, you young people
have been together a great deal of late. You can well afford to be
separated for a few months."

I goes choky in the throat. There was a lot of points I wanted to
make, but I couldn't seem to state 'em fast enough. All I can get out
is: "But--but see here; we--we was sort of plannin' to--to be--"

"Nonsense!" cuts in Auntie. "You are hardly more than children, either
of you. It's absurd enough of you becoming engaged. But beyond that--
Oh, not for years and years."

Oh, yes, there was a lot more to the debate--on our side. I registered
strong, with some cuttin' remark about bein' treated like a scrap of
paper. As for Auntie, she simply stands pat. "Not for years and
years." That's where her argument begins and ends. Not that she's
messy about it, or intends to be mean. She simply don't take our
little plans serious. They don't count.

"There, there!" says she. "We'll say no more about it," and sails off
to sort out the dresses she'll want to stow in her trunk.

"Huh!" says I, glancin' at Vee. "Merry idea of hers, eh? Years and
years! Talks like she thought gettin' married was some game like
issuin' long-term bonds maturin' about 1950."

"If you only knew how stupid and dull it's going to be for me there!"
says Vee, poutin'.

"With you that far off," says I, "New York ain't goin' to seem so gay
for a certain party."

"I suppose I must go, though," says Vee.

"I don't get it," says I.

"Oh, but I must," says she.

Durin' the next week we talked it over a lot; but, so far as I can
remember, we only said about the same thing. It came out that this
friend of Auntie's was one that Vee never could stand for, anyway: a
giddy old dame who kalsomined her face, was free with advice on
bringin' up nieces, and was a bridge and embroidery fiend.

"And I shall be left to sit around," says Vee, "bored stiff."

I knew it wasn't just a whim of hers; for one evening along towards the
last, I found her w