I didn't feel equal, then and there, to offering them any explanation or apologies for the offense. So I simply answered: "No; are they very good? are they as good as 'Little Rosebud's Lovers'?" "No, it ain't," said Mrs. Smith, decisively and a little contemptuously; "and it ain't two books, eye-ther; it's all in one--'Daphne Vernon; or, A Coronet of Shame.'" "Well, now I think it is," put in Phoebe. "Them stories with two-handled names is nearly always good. I'll buy a book with a two-handled name every time before I'll buy one that ain't. I was reading a good one last night that I borrowed from Gladys Carringford. It had three handles to its name, and they was all corkers." "Why don't you spit 'em out?" suggested Mrs. Smith. "Tell us what it was." "Well, it was 'Doris; or, The Pride of Pemberton Mills; or, Lost in a Fearful Fate's Abyss.' What d' ye think of that?" "It sounds very int'resting. Who wrote it?" "Charles Garvice," replied Phoebe. "Didn't you ever read none of his, e--y--e--ther?" "No, I must say I never did," I answered, ignoring their mischievous raillery with as much grace as I could summon, but taking care to choose my words so as to avoid further pitfalls. "And did you never read none of Charlotte M. Braeme's?" drawled Mrs. Smith, with remorseless cruelty--"none of Charlotte M. Braeme's, eye-ther?" "No." "Nor none by Effie Adelaide Rowlands, e--y--e-ther?" still persisted Mrs. Smith. "No; none by her." "E--y--e--ther!" Both my tormentors now raised their singing-voices into a high, clear, full-blown note of derisive music, held it for a brief moment at a dizzy altitude, and then in soft, long-drawn-out cadences returned to earth and speaking-voices again.