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 Lydia, who had accompanied her handsome young uncle to the Poggy Mansion, crossed over and kissed Lanice's sleek hair. 'It's a lovely book. I'm proud to see your real name on it. Smith—the old bear—is jealous.'

'No, not jealous,' said Smith, flinging up his spirited head—'only I was thinking—suppose one married a lady authoress, what, then, is the etiquette? Does one's own name go on the title-page, predicated by a Mrs., or does she merely ignore one's existence and retain her own name for such purposes? I can't say which idea offends me most.' Lydia whispered in the authoress's ear 'Jealous!' But Lanice knew it was something more fundamental. Although Lydia was, as Mrs. Andrews expressed it, as much underfoot' about the Poggy house as ever, Smith Scollay's calls gradually dwindled away and at last ceased. He was, so Lydia told her friend, very restless and he had been drinking too heavily. He had been seen much in New York on certain fast and fashionable occasions.

Lanice, shamming a bad cold, stayed in bed, although the Captain had limped off to Sabbath service in King's Chapel, and Pauline, she supposed, had gone early by horse-car to Roxbury to worship there locally with her wonderful Miss Gatherall, freshly returned from her noble work among the Southern negroes. She had her coffee served grimly by Mrs. Andrews and, having submitted to a rather becoming