"Well, now, what earthly inducement have I to rise earlier? I am doomed--for my sins, I suppose--to spend four mortal hours of every day in dressing, breakfasting, dining, and supping. Moreover, I am constrained to ride a horse. _Item_, I have to talk nonsense. Fourth and lastly, I am the docile slave of my Lady-Mother. Is there anything in the list I have just given you to make a fellow turn out of bed three hours before he can't help it?" "I should not think there was, except in the last item." "Not in the last item, Madam, seeing that her gracious Ladyship does not shine upon the world any sooner than I do--have you not discovered that yet?" "It seems to me, Philip, that you want something to do." "Well, that depends," said Philip, reflectively. "It might be something I should not relish." "Well!" said Celia, a trifle scornfully, "I never would lead such a useless life as that, Philip. 1 would either find something to do or make it." "How very like a woman you talk!" loftily remarked Mr. Philip Ingram, putting his hands in his pockets. Celia laughed merrily. "I don't like it, Celia," resumed Philip, more seriously, "but what can I do? I wish exceedingly that my mother would let me go into the army, but she will not. Edward, you know--or you don't know--is a Colonel in King James's army; so that he can find something to do. I wish you would talk to my mother about it." "_I!_" echoed Celia, in an unmistakable tone. "You," repeated her brother. "My dear Philip, you surely very much mistake my position with her. I have no more influence with my Lady Ingram than--than her little pug dog." "A precious lot, then," retorted Mr. Philip, "for if anybody ruffled the tip of Miss Venus's tail, they would not be asked here again for a twelvemonth. It is you who mistake, Mrs. Celia. The only way to manage my mother is to stand up to her--to let her know that you can take your own way, and you will." "Neither you nor I have any right to do that, Philip," replied Celia, gravely. "I have not, that I allow," said Philip. "I don't quite see that as regards you. Her Ladyship is not _your_ mother." "I think that she takes to me the place both of father and mother, and that I have no more right to argue with or disobey her than them." "That is your view, is it?" inquired Philip, meditatively. "Well, if you look at it in that way, of course you cannot ask her. So be it, then. I must be contented, I suppose, with my customary and highly useful mode of life." "I find no lack of occupation," observed Celia. "No, you are a woman," said Philip. "And as Patient's old rhyme (of which I never can remember the first line) says, 'Woman's work is never done.' Women do seem to possess a marvellous and enviable faculty of finding endless amusement in pushing a needle into a piece of linen, and pulling it out again--can't understand it. Oh! has my mother told you that we are going to St. Germains next week?"