ch a point, having him," said Josephine.

"And he would have enjoyed it so," said Constantia, not thinking what
she was saying.

However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties.
Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats.

"Now, Cyril, you mustn't be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con and
I bought them at Buszard's this morning. We know what a man's appetite
is. So don't be ashamed of making a good tea."

Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her
winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia's only respectable
shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite.

"I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can't. I've only just had lunch, you
know."

"Oh, Cyril, that can't be true! It's after four," cried Josephine.
Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll.

"It is, all the same," said Cyril. "I had to meet a man at Victoria, and
he kept me hanging about till... there was only time to get lunch and
to come on here. And he gave me--phew"--Cyril put his hand to his
forehead--"a terrific blow-out," he said.

It was disappointing--to-day of all days. But still he couldn't be
expected to know.

"But you'll have a meringue, won't you, Cyril?" said Aunt Josephine.
"These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so
fond of them. We were sure you are, too."

"I am, Aunt Josephine," cried Cyril ardently. "Do you mind if I take
half to begin with?"

"Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn't let you off with that."

"Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?" asked Auntie Con
gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers.

"Well, I don't quite know, Auntie Con," said Cyril breezily.

At that they both looked up.

"Don't know?" almost snapped Josephine. "Don't know a thing like that
about your own father, Cyril?"

"Surely," said Auntie Con softly.

Cyril tried to laugh it off. "Oh, well," he said, "it's such a long time
since--" He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for him.

"Even so," said Josephine.

And Auntie Con looked.

Cyril put down his teacup. "Wait a bit," he cried. "Wait a bit, Aunt
Josephine. What am I thinking of?"

He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee.

"Of course," he said, "it was meringues. How could I have forgotten?
Yes, Aunt Josephine, you're perfectly right. Father's most frightfully
keen on meringues."

They didn't only beam. Au