“Consider,” she said, with a little smile; “hadn’t I better stay where I am and pose for you, ‘talking platitudes in stained-glass attitudes,’ than put myself there, out of sight, encroaching upon the barbers’ privileges in more ways than one? As there is only one of me, I think you had better let me stay where I am. There ought to be five or six--one at your Sereneness’ head, and another at your feet. Two with jingling anklets and bangles, to dance in that space over yonder, and two just back of them, to discourse sweet music on their ’citherns and citoles’!” Decourcy smiled at her banter, but he fancied he discerned in her voice a faint ring of earnestness, tinctured with scorn, that disconcerted him. “What is the use of six,” he said, “when I have the sweet ministrations of all, merged into one?--the little maid of long ago! Her comforting offices are an old experience, and, without having seen her dance, I’m willing to pit her against any pair of houris in the Orient; and as to music, I prefer the piano to citherns and citoles.” “Especially in the early morning hours,” said Margaret, slyly, “when your Sereneness is enjoying your nap.” “Who told you anything about that?” he said, starting, and turning toward her abruptly. “I guessed the truth and asked Amy, and she had to own it.” “I don’t hear you in the least, where I am now. I hope you have not given up your practising on my account. I am afraid you have!” “On the contrary,” answered Margaret, “my effort is to make more noise, and I constantly use the loud pedal. If my instrument had been as movable as your apartment, I should have followed you across the hall.” “Why do you talk to me like this, Daisy?” “Because I think you ought to come down in time for breakfast, and not give Amy the trouble of having things prepared afresh for you.” “Amy likes it,” he said, smiling. “It is very fortunate, if she does,” said Margaret; “but I fancy she would do it all the same, whether she liked it or not. Amy never thinks of herself.” At this moment, Mrs. Guion entered, having at last soothed her little patient to sleep. Her first act was to bring a light screen and put it before her brother’s face, to shield it from the fire. “Amy, why will you?” said Margaret. “You spoil Alan frightfully. He’s badly in need of discipline.” “I wish you would take me in hand,” he said, looking at her from behind the screen with an eager expression, that disconcerted her. Mrs. Guion’s entrance introduced new topics, and the _tête-à-tête_ between the cousins was not renewed. The next morning being rainy, Margaret betook herself, after breakfast, to the little up-stairs apartment which was the children’s general play-room, and as the three little creatures gathered around her, she drew Amy to her side and asked her to tell her what she thought of Baltimore on serious consideration. “I don’t like it one bit, Auntie Mard’ret,” said Amy. “I think it’s a nasty, hateful, dirty place.”