“I?” said Kate. “What am I? A silly chit of a thing, with about a dozen ideas in my head, nearly every one of which was planted there by Hope. I like the nonsense of the world very well as it is, and without her I should have cared for nothing else. Count Posen asked me the other day, which country produced on the whole the most womanly women, France or America. He is one of the few foreigners who expect a rational answer. So I told him that I knew very little of Frenchwomen personally, but that I had read French novels ever since I was born, and there was not a woman worthy to be compared with Hope in any of them, except Consuelo, and even she told lies.” “Do not begin upon Hope,” said Aunt Jane. “It is the only subject on which Kate can be tedious. Tell me about the dresses. Were people over-dressed or under-dressed?” “Under-dressed,” said Phil. “Miss Ingleside had a half-inch strip of muslin over her shoulder.” Here Philip followed Hope out of the room, and Emilia presently followed him. “Tell on!” said Aunt Jane. “How did Philip enjoy himself?” “He is easily amused, you know,” said Kate. “He likes to observe people, and to shoot folly as it flies.” “It does not fly,” retorted the elder lady. “I wish it did. You can shoot it sitting, at least where Philip is.” “Auntie,” said Kate, “tell me truly your objection to Philip. I think you did not like his parents. Had he not a good mother?” “She was good,” said Aunt Jane, reluctantly, “but it was that kind of goodness which is quite offensive.” “And did you know his father well?” “Know him!” exclaimed Aunt Jane. “I should think I did. I have sat up all night to hate him.” “That was very wrong,” said Kate, decisively. “You do not mean that. You only mean that you did not admire him very much.” “I never admired a dozen people in my life, Kate. I once made a list of them. There were six women, three men, and a Newfoundland dog.” “What happened?” said Kate. “The Is-raelites died after Pharaoh, or somebody, numbered them. Did anything happen to yours?” “It was worse with mine,” said Aunt Jane. “I grew tired of some and others I forgot, till at last there was nobody left but the dog, and he died.” “Was Philip’s father one of them?” “No.” “Tell me about him,” said Kate, firmly. “Ruth,” said the elder lady, as her young handmaiden passed the door with her wonted demureness, “come here; no, get me a glass of water. Kate! I shall die of that girl. She does some idiotic thing, and then she looks in here with that contented, beaming look. There is an air of baseless happiness about her that drives me nearly frantic.” “Never mind about that,” persisted Kate. “Tell me about Philip’s father. What was the matter with him?” “My dear,” Aunt Jane at last answered,--with that fearful moderation to which she usually resorted when even her stock of superlatives was exhausted,--“he belonged to a family for whom truth possessed even less than the usual attractions.”