"Not yours only," was the answer, "Peter was quoting the husband this afternoon."
They were both silent for a moment thinking of the three charming Americans who had spent a couple of months at the Towers the previous summer, bringing with them an adored scrap of humanity and a host of nurses, valets and maids.
Then Gillian drew her arm closer around Miss Craven.
"Alex pressed me to stay until to-morrow, I had the greatest trouble to get away. But I promised to come back this afternoon, and, do you know, Aunt Caro, I had the queerest feeling this morning. I thought you wanted me, wanted me urgently. As if you could ever want anybody urgently, you self-reliant wonder." She gave the shoulder she was caressing an affectionate hug. "But it was odd, wasn't it? I nearly telephoned, and then I concluded you would think I had taken leave of my senses."
Miss Craven sat very still.
"I should have," she replied, and hoped that her voice appeared more natural than it sounded to herself. Gillian laughed.
"Anyhow, I'm glad you had Mr. Peters to cheer your solitary tea. I hated to think of you being alone."
"He didn't. He left early. But Barry condescended to take pity on me."
"Mr. Craven!" There was the slightest pause before she added: "I thought he scorned le five o'clock. He's not nearly so domesticated as David."
"As who, my dear?" asked Miss Craven, staring. Gillian gave another little laugh.
"Oh, that's my private name for Mr. Peters--he doesn't mind--he spoils me dreadfully--'the sweet singer in Israel'--you know. He has got the most beautiful tenor voice I have ever listened to."
"Peter--sing! I've never heard him sing," said Miss Craven in wonder, and she looked up with a new curiosity. "I've known him for thirty years, and in less than that number of months you discover an accomplishment of which everybody else is ignorant. How did you manage it, child?"
"By accident, one evening in the summer. You were dining out, and Mouston and I had gone for a ramble in the park--it's gorgeous there in the crepuscule--and we were quite close to the Hermitage. I heard him and I eaves-dropped--is there such a word? It was so lovely that I had to clap and he came out and found an unexpected audience on the windowsill. Wasn't it dreadful? He was so dear about it and explained that it was a very private form of amusement, but since the cat was out of the bag there was an end of the matter, only he positively declined to perform in public. I bullied him into singing some more, and then he walked home with me."