The son of the Collector hesitated for a moment. He had his own ideas of getting on in the world. They were not Jack's--his, he knew, would never succeed. And they were not exactly Corinne's--she was too particular. The fence was evidently the best place for him. “Would be rather a bore, wouldn't it?” he replied evasively, with a laugh. “Lives up under the roof, I guess, wears a dyed wig, got Cousin Mary Ann's daguerreotype on the mantle, and tells you how Uncle Ephraim--” The door opened and Jack's aunt swept in. She never walked, or ambled, or stepped jauntily, or firmly, or as if she wanted to get anywhere in particular; she SWEPT in, her skirts following meekly behind--half a yard behind, sometimes. Corinne launched the inquiry at her mother, even before she could return Garry's handshake. “Who's Miss Grayson, mamma?” “I don't know. Why, my child?” “Well, she says she knows you. Met you in Washington.” “The only Miss Grayson I ever met in Washington, my dear, was an old maid, the niece of the Secretary of State. She kept house for him after his wife died. She held herself very high, let me tell you. A very grand lady, indeed. But she must be an old woman now, if she is still living. What did you say her first name was?” Corinne took the open letter from Jack's hand. “Felicia... Yes, Felicia.” “And what does she want?--money for some charity?” Almost everybody she knew, and some she didn't, wanted money for some charity. She was loosening her cloak as she spoke, Frederick standing by to relieve my lady of her wraps. “No; she's going to give a tea and wants us all to come. She's the sister of that old man who came to see Jack the other night, and--” “Going to give a tea!--and the sister of--Well, then, she certainly isn't the Miss Grayson I know. Don't you answer her, Corinne, until I find out who she is.” “I'll tell you who she is,” burst out Jack. His face was aflame now. Never had he listened to such discourtesy. He could hardly believe his ears. “It wouldn't help me in the least, my dear Jack; so don't you begin. I am the best judge of who shall come to my house. She may be all right, and she may not, you can never tell in a city like New York, and you can't be too particular. People really do such curious pushing things now-a-days.” This to Garry. “Now serve tea, Parkins. Come in all of you.” Jack was on the point of blazing out in indignation over the false position in which his friend had been placed when Peter's warning voice rang in his ears. The vulgarity of the whole proceeding appalled him, yet he kept control of himself. “None for me, please, aunty,” he said quietly. “I will join you later, Garry,” and he mounted the stairs to his room. CHAPTER VIII