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“No, I don’t remember getting one,” he replied, with an expression of curiosity.

“That’s strange. Apparently it went astray. But I always wondered—but then I wrote you again, Mauney, about three years ago. Didn’t you get that?”

He shook his head.

“Funny!” she said, looking toward her husband.

“There’s nothing funny about trans-Atlantic mails, my dear,” said Mr. Neville Day, lighting his cigar. “It’s got well past the funny stage with me.”

“And then I sent you a postcard once, I remember. Didn’t you even get that, Mauney?”

“I don’t remember it.”

“Well, anyway, we’re here,” she said, with sudden decision. “And if I don’t see him, I’ll always wish I had.”

“All right, Mary,” said Neville Day. “Now stick to that, my dear. Would you mind telling your father there’s somebody here to see him, Mauney?”

“Certainly,” Mauney agreed, turning to leave.

“Oh, wait!” called his aunt. “Wait a minute. You know I—I don’t think I can see him, Neville. No, I can’t. I really cannot.”

The uncle smoked calmly, studying his finger-nails, while Mauney stood riddled with curiosity.