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 I know I did, for I was seated opposite a mirror (which I generally am) and noted the coming of the modest roses with an infinity of pride.

"Precisely, Barbara," says my aunt.

"Then I am sure, dear aunt," says I, with some enjoyment, "that you are under a misapprehension in this matter. How possibly could I admit a person of that character so near my bosom?"

"But surely," says my aunt, a very stickler for the mode, "a low-necked gown at supper-time should be de rigeur. The one your Miss Canticle is wearing is decidedly de trop."

"'Tis not altogether décolleté," says I, with a reflective air, "but then, you see, dear aunt, her physician says her chest's so delicate that at informal gatherings or in the country it behoves her to protect it."

"Dear me," says my aunt, "I should not have thought it now. She doth not appear a particularly delicate or fragile kind of flower."

"Appearances are deceptive," says I, with a solemnity that padded out my wisdom.

"They are," says my aunt. There was a significance hidden somewhere in her voice that made me quail. "For I do observe that there is a special robustness about her appetite that would not suggest much delicacy in anything."

I shot a look across at the wretched Prue, and saw quite enough to justify my aunt. The manner in which that young person was partaking of a woodcock at the same instant as she was leading