Susan’s laugh—so evidently expected here—sounds to herself a little forced, though why she could not have explained. ‘Oh, not so old as that!’ ‘Well, perhaps not, by a year or so,’ says Betty, as if determined on being absolutely fair and accurate to a fraction. ‘Do you know,’ says Susan, a little reluctantly, but as though she must say it, ‘I—of course, I know he is ever so much older than any of us, but, for all that, somehow, he doesn’t seem to me to be—well, old, you know.’ Betty nods, and Susan, encouraged by this treacherous sign, rashly takes a further step. ‘It has even sometimes seemed to me,’ says she nervously, ‘that he is quite young.’ ‘That reminds me of something I read this morning,’ says Betty, who is beginning to enjoy herself. ‘It ran like this: “On the whole, I consider him one of the youngest men of my acquaintance.”’ ‘Where did you read that?’ asks Susan, with open suspicion. ‘In a book’—smartly. ‘Well, I suppose so. And what book, and who said it?’ ‘A frisky duchess.’ ‘She was young, of course?’ ‘Not very,’ Betty grins. ‘Eighty-two or thereabouts.’ ‘Oh, well, then, no doubt she was alluding to a mere boy of her acquaintance.’ ‘Not at all. To another frisky person of the opposite sex—a young thing of one hundred and five or so.’ ‘What do you mean, Betty? You don’t suppose that Mr. Crosby is a hundred and five or so?’ ‘I don’t indeed. I put him in the seventies, if you remember. That would make him quite a babe to the duchess I speak of. She said her centenarian had the brightest, the most engaging manners, and, of course, that reminded me of Mr. Cros— Where are you going now, Susan?’ ‘I want to put fresh cuffs on Bonnie’s shirts,’ says Susan. Her tone is a little reserved, and there is a deepening of dignity in the delicate lightness of her steps, as she turns away, that tells Betty she is in some way offended. Betty, stricken, but with a conscience clear, runs after her and tucks her arm into hers. ‘Have I vexed you?’ asks she. ‘Vexed me?’ Susan’s tone is rather exaggerated. ‘No. How could you have vexed me?’ ‘That’s true,’ says Betty comfortably, who never gets deeper than the actual moment. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’ ‘But why should I bring you in?’ asks Susan, who has a new queer fancy to be alone. ‘To do your hair, for one thing,’ says the tease of the family with delightful _bonhomie_. ‘Really, Susan, you can’t appear in public like this twice; and you know we are going to be photographed in— What is the hour now? Good gracious! it’s growing very late. We must run. Bonnie’s shirts can’t be done to-day, but I’ll help you with them to-morrow. Oh, there’s auntie—’ ‘Susan, you must make haste,’ cries Miss Barry, hurrying round the corner. ‘There is no time to be lost. And, my dear, your hair! How fortunate you washed it to-day! When neatly done up it will look beautiful. Betty, I have been thinking of having you taken with your hat on. Your best hat—’ ‘Oh, auntie!’ says poor Betty.