Agnes.⁠Auntie!

Lucy.⁠And what is his name?

Agnes.⁠Geo——— Mr. Reddell.

Lucy.⁠And hers is?

Agnes.⁠Oh, I never intended to tell you. I didn't mean to say a word.

Lucy.⁠When did it happen?

Agnes.⁠Three days ago. That is to say, he proposed to me then, but of course it has been going on for a long time. I could see that he—at least I thought I could see. But I can hardly realise it yet. It seems all so strange. And I did intend telling you, I felt I must tell somebody, although George doesn't want it known yet, because, as I told you, he—and so I haven't said a word to father yet; but I must soon—and you won't say anything, will you? and—and oh, I am silly.

Lucy.⁠There, have your cry out, it will do you good. Now tell me about Mr. Reddell. What is he?

Agnes.⁠He is a writer—an author. Don't you remember I showed you a story of his a little time ago?

Lucy.⁠I thought I knew the name.

Agnes.⁠And you said you liked it; I was so pleased.

Lucy.⁠Yes, I did. I thought it clever and———

Agnes.⁠He is clever; and I do so want you to know him. He wants to know you, too. You will try to like him, won't you, for my sake?

Lucy.⁠I have no doubt I shall.

Agnes.⁠He is just bringing out a book. Some of the stories have been published before; the one you read was one, and if that proves a success then it will be all right; we shall be able to get married and———

Lucy.⁠Wait a minute, Agnes. How long have you known him?