She did not write to Frances until she had her husband on the high seas.  She did not write at all to Mary or Rose, not wishing them to know of her marriage until she could personally ‘break it’ to them.  It was not difficult to ensure this, since for many a year they had all been so separated by their respective circumstances that they were no longer sisters in the old Redford sense.  The business of each was her own, and not supposed to interest the rest.  Only such domestic events as were of serious moment were formally reported amongst them, and were never deemed serious enough to use the cable for.

The pair came home very quietly.  Sydney was the port of arrival, and here Deb divined on the part of her husband a desire to be left in peace—­to recruit after laborious travelling in the care of his devoted and accomplished man—­while she went forward to “get the fuss over”.  Those sisters were the shadows upon his now sunny path, although he did not say so; he wanted to get to Redford without having to kiss them and talk to their offensive men-folk on the way.  So Deb proposed to do what she felt he wished, and paid no heed to the dutiful objections which he could not make to sound genuine in her ears.  She telegraphed instructions to Bob Goldsworthy to engage rooms for her and to meet her, signing the message “Aunt Deborah”—­her only herald.

Bob was duly at Spencer Street—­elegant in curled moustaches and a frock-coat—­become a swell young barrister since she had seen him last.  He was sure of the impression he would create upon his discriminating aunt, and had no notion that her first flashing glance at him was accompanied by a flashing thought of how her adopted son would too surely be ranked by her more discriminating husband with the “bounders” of his implacable disdain.  On the platform—­while explaining that he knew it was not the proper thing to do in a public place—­he embraced the majestic figure in the splendid sable cloak.  Deb said, “Bother the proper thing!” and kissed him readily—­charily, however, because conscious of teeth that were not Pennycuick teeth, and perversely objecting to the faultless costume.  But, looking at the frock-coat, she perceived mourning-band upon the sleeve.  Another encircled his glittering tall hat.

“Not—­oh, Bob!—­not your mother?” she gasped.

He shook his head, and asked a question about her luggage.

“Aunt Rose—­your uncle—?”

“Oh, Aunt Deb—­don’t!  She is my aunt, I know, but he—­” Bob spread deprecating hands.  “They are both well, I believe.  I think I heard that the fiftieth baby arrived last week.  Is that your maid in the brown—­”

“Oh, but, Bob—­tell me—­they haven’t lost any of those nice children, I do trust!”

“I should hardly have been in mourning on their account.  No—­fat and tough as little pigs, by the look of them.  It is my father, Aunt Deb.  I thought you knew.”  “What!” She stopped on their way towards Rosalie and the luggage van.  “You don’t say—­”