Master and Maid. L. Allen Harker
some one strict to look after them."
"Please, Tony, do you mind if I take off my hat? I didn't like to do it before those boys, for I haven't a notion what state my hair is in, but you've seen me at all times ever since I was a baby, haven't you? And you'll excuse it."
She drew the big jade pins out of her hat and laid it on the senior prefect's chair. Without it, she looked absurdly young: her face was the face of a child, full of soft curves and sweet, blurred outlines. There was something timid and beseeching in the dark eyes she raised to Tony Bevan so confidingly: eyes black-lashed, with faint blue shadows underneath--the "mark of the dirty finger" that every pretty Irishwoman is proud to possess.
"You can look after me beautifully yourself, Tony, dear; that's why I've come. Dad said I'd be safer with you than any one."
"But, my child, I am in College the greater part of the day. Every minute of my time is filled up in school and out. As it is, I have an appointment with the Chairman of the Playground Committee in five minutes. What will you do with yourself?"
"Can't I see the chairman too? Well then, where's Paunch? Couldn't he come and talk to me for a little bit--just while you settle with this other man?"
"Hush! You must not call Mr. Johns by that nickname here. Besides, he's taking prep., and would be impossible in any case."
"Now, Tony, don't you be hushing me for saying 'Paunch.' Everybody calls him Paunch. I've heard you do it yourself."
"Yes, Lallie, I dare say you have, but not here. It would be most disrespectful and rude----"
"Good gracious, Tony! You don't imagine I'm going to call the man Paunch to his face, do you? Did you think that when he was introduced to me I'd make him a curtsey like this"--here she arose and swept a magnificent curtsey--"and say, 'I'm delighted to make your acquaintance Mr. Paunch; I've heard a vast deal about you one way and another'? Don't be a goose, Tony! What about Matron? She hasn't left, has she? Paddy says she's a regular brick, and anyway it won't be a bit duller for me here than it was with Aunt Emileen whenever Dad was away."
"Child, who is Aunt Emileen? I don't seem to have heard of her before. Couldn't she come and be with you for the next few days?"
The girl burst into sudden laughter--infectious, musical, Irish laughter. She rocked to and fro in her mirth, and suddenly snuggling up to Tony Bevan, rubbed her head against his shoulder.
"Oh, Tony, you are too delicious! She can certainly come if you want her, but I'm not sure that you'd think her much good."
"Sit up, Lallie, there's some one coming down the drive. You haven't answered my question. Who and where is Aunt Emileen?"
"Aunt Emileen is my chaperon, but she suffers from delicate health. When Dad took a little house at Fairham last November--and a nice soft winter it was--he told everybody about Aunt Emileen, so that no one should come pestering him and suggesting some nice widow lady to keep house and take care of me. And she answered very well indeed, though it was a little difficult when the clergyman wanted to call and see her." Again she lapsed into that absurd infectious laughter.
"But whose aunt is she?" persisted the bewildered Tony. "I know your father hasn't any sisters, and your dear mother was an only girl. Is she the wife of one of your uncles? Or is she your father's aunt?"
"Honestly, Tony, I can't tell you any more about the lady except that she's Aunt Emileen."
"But what's her surname?"
"I can't tell you, Tony, for I don't know; we never bothered about a surname."
"Now, that's ridiculous, Lallie; the servants couldn't call her Aunt Emileen."
"Oh, Tony, you'll kill me, you're so funny. Listen, and I'll tell you all about it. Aunt Emileen is--a creation, a figment of Dad's brain, a sop thrown to conventionality by the most unconventional man in creation: a Mrs. Harris. She could be as strict and stiff and pernicketty as ever she liked, for she couldn't interfere with us really; and she pleased people very much, but they were sorry she was such an invalid."
"But do you mean to tell me that your father really talked about her to strangers?"
"Of course he did. That's what she was for; we didn't want her. So sympathetic he was; and then he'd break off and joke about her Low Church leanings--she always reads the Rock, does Aunt Emileen--and her wool-work, and her missionary box, and her very strict views of life and its responsibilities--oh, there were some people quite pitied me having such an old fuss to look after me."
Tony sighed.
"I really don't know which is the more incorrigible infant, you or your father. However, you'd better get to bed now and we can see in the morning what it will be best to do. I must see that chap at once; Ford announced him in the middle of your interesting narrative about Aunt Emileen. You must be dreadfully tired, poor child! I'll ask Matron to look after you to-night; come with me."
"Can't I just go and say good-night to those nice boys and see their little studies?"
"No, my dear, you most certainly can't. You must promise me, Lallie, that you will never go into the boys' part of the house unless I or Miss Foster be with you."
Lallie sighed deeply.
"I promise, Tony, but it is hard. I did like them so much, and it would have cheered me up."
The musical voice was most submissive, but in addition it suggested much fatigue and loneliness and disappointment; and poor Tony Bevan felt a perfect brute. Her dark eyes followed him reproachfully as he held the door open for her, and she paused on the threshold to say beseechingly:
"Don't try to be an Uncle Emileen, Tony; the part doesn't suit you one little bit, and I know you'll never be able to keep it up. I'll be a jewel of a girl and a paragon of propriety without you looking so solemn and trying to talk so preachey. You'll be quite used to me being here in a day or two, and I'm sure I'll get on with the boys like anything."
"My dear, you misunderstand me; I am delighted to have you, and I hope you will be very happy. It is only that I am so sorry that Miss Foster----"
"Tony, if you talk any more about Miss Foster I'll pinch you. I tell you I'm thankful she's away. Now take me upstairs to my bed."
Matron, trim and neat in the uniform of a hospital nurse, met them at the bedroom door. Lallie held out both her hands in greeting.
"I'm ever so pleased to meet you, Matron, dear," she cried in her sweet voice. "You'll remember my brother, Paddy Clonmell? he's devoted to you, and I'm to give you his love and no end of messages."
The matron's kind, worn face beamed.
"Mr. Clonmell's sister, isn't it, sir?" she said, turning to Tony. "She has arrived before you expected her, so I've put her in Miss Foster's room for to-night. I will see that her own is all in order to-morrow. I'll look after her and take care that she is comfortable."
"Good-night, Lallie," said Tony, looking much relieved. "Don't trouble to get up to breakfast; Ford will bring you some upstairs. Sleep well!"
He turned to depart, but the girl came flying after him to the head of the stairs.
"Aren't you going to kiss me good-night, Tony?" she cried reproachfully, "an' me so tired and homesick and all."
She turned up her face towards his--the pathetic, tired child-face.
Tony Bevan's somewhat weather-beaten countenance turned a dusky crimson. He dropped a hasty kiss on the very top of her head and fled down the staircase without looking back.
Matron, standing in the doorway, watched the little scene with considerable interest.
"Perhaps he'd rather I didn't kiss him now I'm here," Lallie said meditatively. "What do you think, Matron?"
The girl evidently asked her opinion in all good faith, and the matron, who had a kind heart for everything young and a sincere liking for the head of the house, said diplomatically:
"Of course I know Mr. Bevan's just like a dear uncle to