“I believe that some of these things are done here,” replied Mr. Port, in a tone that implied that such frivolities were quite beyond the lines of his own personal interests. “Yes,” he continued, “I am sure that all of them are done here now--for the Pier is not what it used to be, Dorothy. The quiet air of intense respectability that characterized Narragansett when it was the resort only of a few of the best families of Philadelphia has departed from it--I fear forever! But, thank Heaven, its climatic characteristics remain intact. When you are older, Dorothy, and your liver asserts itself, you will appreciate this incomparable climate at its proper value.” “Well, it hasn’t asserted itself yet, you know; and I must say I’m devoutly thankful that something has happened to wake up the quiet and intensely respectable Philadelphians before I had to come here. But I’m very glad, dear Uncle Hutchinson,” Miss Lee continued, winningly, “that this climate is so good for you, and I’m sure I hope that you won’t have a single bilious attack all the time that you are here. And you’ll take your angel to the dances, and to see the tennis, and you’ll give her lunch-parties, and you’ll take her yachting, won’t you, you dear? But I know you will; and if this were not such a very conspicuous place, and might make a scandal, I’d give you a very sweet kiss to pay you in advance for all the trouble that you are going to take to make your angel enjoy herself. You needn’t bother about the teas, Uncle Hutchinson--for the most part they’re only women, and stupid.” Being still somewhat cast down by painful memories of that trying final fortnight in Saratoga, during which he and his niece had pulled so strongly in opposite directions, Mr. Port heard with a lively alarm this declaration of a plan of campaign which, if carried out, would wreck hopelessly his own comfort of body and peace of mind. Obviously, this was no time for faltering. If the catastrophe was to be averted, he must speak out at once and with a decisive energy. “I need not tell you, Dorothy,” he began, speaking in a most grave and earnest tone, “that it is my desire to discharge in the amplest and kindest manner my duties towards you as a guardian--” “I’m sure of it, and of course you needn’t tell me, you dearest dear--and we might begin with just a little lunch to-day. The breakfast was horrid, and I didn’t get half enough even of what there was.”