"
"Dear Aunt--where?"
"Back to Merivale, to your books, your paintings and my loving care."
"Not yet, Aunt. Ah, pray do not misunderstand me, but when I set out,
it was with the purpose of doing better things than penning
indifferent verse, or painting futile pictures--"
"Peregrine--nephew--do I hear aright?"
"You do, Aunt. I came out into the world to open the greatest book of
all--the book of Life--to try to meet and know men and learn some day,
perhaps, to be a man also and one you can honour. Instead of reading
the actions of others, I intend to act a little myself--"
"Peregrine--cease!"
"And so, dear Aunt, here I stay until I can return to you feeling that
I have achieved something worthy my sex and name."
"Peregrine, come with me--I command you!"
"Then, dearest Aunt, with all the humility possible, I fear I must
disobey you."
My aunt Julia drew herself to her stately height, setting her
indomitable chin at me, and into her eyes came that coercive
expression which resurrected the memory of childish sins of omission
and commission, an expression before which my new-found hardihood
wilted and drooped; but in this desperate moment I glanced at Diana,
and, meeting the calm serenity of her untroubled gaze, I folded my
arms and, bowing my head, awaited the deluge with what fortitude I
might and, in the awful stillness, heard uncle George's spurs jingle
distressfully.
"You mean that--you--will--not--come?" she demanded.
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