Her niece ignored the late Lady Betty. "I think the girl was going lengths in coming at all," she said. "After all, what did it amount to? Just that she and this young soldier of hers came to the Studio to see a picture. And supposing it did happen on the day when Reginald behaved so detestably with that horrible girl! Doesn't that make it all the other way round?" She wished to express that if Miss Upwell had come to know about her quarrel with her husband, she should have kept her distance the more on that account. But she was not equal to the effort, and perhaps acknowledged it when she said, "You know what I mean, so it's no use drum-drum-drumming it all through, like a cart-horse or a barrel-organ. Anyhow, Miss Upsley Pupsley would have shown better taste to keep away, to _my_ thinking!" "I thought you seemed to like her, Euphemia," said the Aunt meekly. "I didn't say I didn't," said the niece. "Then I won't speak." Which resolve of Miss Priscilla's is inexplicable, unless due allowance is made for the fact that familiar domestic chat turns quite as much on the way it omits, as the way it uses words. The younger lady's manner was that of one in whom exasperation, produced by unrighteous conspiracy, was being kept in check by rare powers of self-control. That of the elder indicated constitutional toleration of the waywardness of near relations; who are, as we know, a crotchety class. When one of these, in addition to tapping with her foot and looking flushed and ready to cry on small provocation, bites articles of _virtu_, surely a certain amount of forbearance--an irritating practice--is permissible. "You'll spoil the paper-knife," said Miss Priscilla. "And it was a present from your great-uncle John Bulstrode, when he came from India." Mrs. Aiken put the paper-knife down irritably, because she knew, as you and I do, that when those little mosaic pieces once come out, it's no use trying to stick them in again. But she said, "Bother the paper-knife!" And for a few moments her soul was content to find expression in foot-tapping and lip-biting; while her Aunt forbore, and took up her knitting. Then she got up and paced about the room restlessly. The lamp was going out, or wanted seeing to. She turned it up; but if lamps are going out for want of oil, turning them up does no good, and only burns the wick away. They have to be properly seen to. It was too late to be worth putting fresh oil in, this time. Candles would do, or for that matter, why not do without? The firelight was much nicer. Mrs. Reginald Aiken walked about the room while Miss Priscilla Bax looked at the fire and knitted. It was getting on for bedtime. Suddenly the walker stopped opposite the knitter. "Aunty!" said she, but in a voice that almost seemed to add, "Do talk to me and be sympathetic. I'm quite reasonable now." Her aunt seemed to accept the concession, skipping ratifications. "Certainly, my dear Euphemia," she said, with dignity.