And then—­ Well, it was just a little chat Auntie has over the ’phone that takes most of the joy out of life.  I didn’t notice what she was sayin’ at first, bein’ busy tryin’ to draw out the floor plan of a cute four-room affair I’d inspected recent.  All of a sudden, though, I pricks up my ears.

“But it’s so hot in Jamaica,” Auntie is tellin’ this friend of hers—­“that is, unless one goes to Montego Bay, and the hotel there—­ Oh, Newcastle?  Yes, that is delightful, but—­ Can one, really?  An army officer’s villa!  That would be ideal, up there in the mountains.  And Jamaica always routs my rheumatism.  For three months?  When can we get a good steamer?  The tenth.  That would give us time.  Well, I think we shall join you.  Let me sleep on it.  I’ll call you about noon to-morrow?  Good-by.”

Meanwhile Vee and I are gazin’ blank at each other.  We don’t need any diagram to understand what Auntie is up to.  Just one of her old tricks—­a speedy packin’ up and a casual getaway for Jamaica.  Say, wouldn’t that crack your faith in human nature?  And she proceeds to announce her scheme as placid as if it was something she’d thought out special for our benefit.

“Excuse me,” says I, “but you ain’t plannin’ on 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.”