Friday last, at exactly three, Sarah arrayed me as a lily of the field in a glorified turquoise and mauve negligée. There were even mauve-and-gold pompomed slippers on my worthless feet, and my newly washed hair was piled high and transfixed with my Mother's tortoise-shell Spanish comb. It was thus festively garbed that Father and Doctor Bill--by which name he shall henceforth be known, as some slight concession to his wizardry--settled me happily under my particular trees, there to await Mr. Denton's arrival. Sarah, at my insistence, smuggled a mirror into my hand and sleeve, and when I heard the smooth purr of the Denton motor, far up the road, I took one little peek. For if I am not allowed to be just an atom vain, what virtue is there in charming color schemes and frothing chiffons? Certainly, the negligée is distractingly pretty, and I am proud of Father's dress instinct. And something or other had brought the faintest tinge of color to my cheeks, the shadow of a sparkle to my eyes. I was hoping that no one would detect me as I lay and admired myself. But the Doctor Bill person did, of course. He has eyes all over his head, that man! And promptly, he settled a lovely rainbow cushion behind my head, remarking very quietly, "Perhaps this will heighten the effect, Miss Carroll! Poor Uncle John!" I could have killed him! As it was, Diary, although I almost blush to confess it, I--Well, as his disgustingly capable hand slid past my cheek, I turned my head, ever so little, and, quite delicately, I _bit_! Not hard, but in an extremely ladylike manner. There was no occasion for his rude exclamation, and the alarming brick-red which he proceeded to turn. Happily for us both, for I was torn between insincere apology and laughter, Mr. Denton arrived, engrossing his nephew's attention and my own. As usual he was accompanied by half a dozen baskets of fruit and half a library shelf of the latest, lightest books. Best of all, he brought his own rotund self--and Wigglesworth! I was prepared for something by Richard Warren's letter, which had come to me Friday morning. But not for this delicious bunch of black-satin, French bull puppy. For Wigglesworth is the acme, the ultimate perfection of dogdom. When, accompanied by gasps from all assembled, he leaped at me out of the chauffeur's restraining arms, I gave a perfectly healthy shriek, and clutched him, chiffons notwithstanding. "Where did you get him, Denton?" asked Father, vainly endeavoring to part us. "I didn't get him," answered Mr. Denton, smiling. "He was wished on me by an unknown admirer of Mavis." Father extricated Wigglesworth, and holding him firmly--he has been well named--read aloud, from the silver and leather collar which adorned his fascinating neck, "Wigglesworth." Then, looking closer, added, "What's this? 'Property of H.R.H.'?" I am afraid I looked guilty. Dr. Denton whistled, and stepped nearer the initials in question, or, shall I say, the questionable initials?