“I am afraid that is only too likely, dear.  Come and sit down, little girl, and tell me, at all events, something about it.”

“Little girl?” repeated Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile.  “No; that has gone by, aunt.”

“I thought so myself the other day; but—­I suppose you have met Mr. Elgar several times at his sister’s, and have said nothing to me about it?”

“That would not have been my usual behaviour, I hope.  When did I deceive you, aunt?”

“Never, that I know.  Where have you met then?”

“Only at the times and places of which you know.”

“Where did you give Mr. Elgar the right to address you in this manner?”

“Only yesterday.  I think you mustn’t ask me more than that, aunt.”

“I’mafraid your companions were rather lacking in discretion,” said the other, in a tone of annoyance.

“No; not in the sense you attach to the words.  But, aunt, you are speaking as if I were a little girl, to be carefully watched at every step.”

Mrs. Lessingham mused, looking absently at the letter.  She paid no heed to her niece’s last words, but at length said with decision: 

“Cecily, this meeting cannot take place.”

The girl replied with a look of uttermost astonishment.

“It is impossible, dear.  Mr. Elgar should not have written to you like this.  He should have addressed himself to other people.”

“Other people?  But you don’t understand, aunt.  I cannot explain to you.  I expected this letter; and we must see each other.”

Her voice trembled, failed.

“Shall you not treat my wish with respect, Cecily?”

“Will you explain to me all that you do wish, aunt?”

“Certainly.  It is true that you are not a French girl, and I have no desire to regard you as though we were a French aunt and niece talking of this subject in the conventional way.  But you are very young, dear, and most decidedly it behoved Mr. Elgar to bear in mind both his and your position.  You have no parents, unhappily, but you know that Mr. Mallard is legally appointed the guardian of your interests, and I trust you know also that I am deeply concerned in all that affects you.  Let us say nothing, one way or another, of what has happened.  Since it has happened, it was Mr. Elgar’s duty to address himself to me, or to Mr. Mallard, before making private appointments with you.”

“Aunt, you can see that this letter is written so as to allow of my showing it to you.”

“I have noticed that, of course.  It makes Mr. Elgar’s way of proceeding seem still more strange to me.  He is good enough to ask you to relieve him of what he thinks—­”

“You misunderstand him, aunt, entirely.  I cannot explain it to you.  Only trust me, I beg, to do what I know to be right.  It is necessary that I should speak with Mr. Elgar; do not pain me by compelling me to say more.  Afterwards, he will wish to see you, I know.”