’Well, let us say Old Christmas Eve, then.  Shall it be Old Christmas Eve?’

‘Yes, Old Christmas Eve.’

‘Your word is solemn, and irrevocable now?’

’Certainly, I have solemnly pledged my word; I should not have promised to marry you if I had not meant it.  Don’t think I should.’  She spoke the words with a dignified impressiveness.

’You must not be vexed at my remark, dearest.  Can you think the worse of an ardent man, Cytherea, for showing some anxiety in love?’

‘No, no.’  She could not say more.  She was always ill at ease when he spoke of himself as a piece of human nature in that analytical way, and wanted to be out of his presence.  The time of day, and the proximity of the house, afforded her a means of escape.  ’I must be with Miss Aldclyffe now—­will you excuse my hasty coming and going?’ she said prettily.  Before he had replied she had parted from him.

’Cytherea, was it Mr. Manston I saw you scudding away from in the avenue just now?’ said Miss Aldclyffe, when Cytherea joined her.

‘Yes.’

’"Yes.”  Come, why don’t you say more than that?  I hate those taciturn “Yesses” of yours.  I tell you everything, and yet you are as close as wax with me.’

‘I parted from him because I wanted to come in.’

‘What a novel and important announcement!  Well, is the day fixed?’

‘Yes.’

Miss Aldclyffe’s face kindled into intense interest at once.  ’Is it indeed?  When is it to be?’

‘On Old Christmas Eve.’

‘Old Christmas Eve.’  Miss Aldclyffe drew Cytherea round to her front, and took a hand in each of her own.  ’And then you will be a bride!’ she said slowly, looking with critical thoughtfulness upon the maiden’s delicately rounded cheeks.

The normal area of the colour upon each of them decreased perceptibly after that slow and emphatic utterance by the elder lady.

Miss Aldclyffe continued impressively, ’You did not say “Old Christmas Eve” as a fiancee should have said the words:  and you don’t receive my remark with the warm excitement that foreshadows a bright future. . . .  How many weeks are there to the time?’

‘I have not reckoned them.’

’Not?  Fancy a girl not counting the weeks!  I find I must take the lead in this matter—­you are so childish, or frightened, or stupid, or something, about it.  Bring me my diary, and we will count them at once.’

Cytherea silently fetched the book.

Miss Aldclyffe opened the diary at the page containing the almanac, and counted sixteen weeks, which brought her to the thirty-first of December—­a Sunday.  Cytherea stood by, looking on as if she had no appetite for the scene.

’Sixteen to the thirty-first.  Then let me see, Monday will be the first of January, Tuesday the second, Wednesday third, Thursday fourth, Friday fifth—­you have chosen a Friday, as I declare!’

‘A Thursday, surely?’ said Cytherea.