horrid little white socks, she has systematically and pertinaciously
spoiled me whenever she stayed at Canton Magna.--Oh! she is an
institution. No family should be without her. When I was small she gave
me chocolates, tin soldiers, pop-guns warranted to endanger my
brothers' and sisters' eyesight. And now, in a thousand ways, conscious
and unconscious," he laughed quietly, naughtily, the words running over
each other in the rapidity of his speech--"she gives me such a blessed
good conceit of myself!"

And Damaris Verity, caught by the wave of his light-heartedness and
inherent desire to please, softened again, her serious eyes alight for
the moment with answering laughter. Whereupon Tom crossed the threshold
and stood close beside her upon the grass in the brooding sunshine, the
beds of scarlet and crimson geraniums ranging away on glowing perspective
to left and right. He glanced at the three ladies seated beneath the
giant ilexes, and back at his companion. He felt absurdly keen further to
excite her friendliness and dispel her gravity.

"Only one must admit cousin Harriet is quite another story," he went on
softly, saucily. "Any conceit our dear Felicia rubs in to you, Harriet
most effectually rubs out. Isn't it so? I am as a worm, a positive worm
before her--can only 'tremble and obey' like the historic lady in the
glee. She flattens me. I haven't an ounce of kick left in me. And then
why, oh why, tell me, Damaris, does she invariably and persistently
clothe herself in violet ink?"

"It is her colour," the girl said, her eyes still laughing, her lips
discreetly set.

"But why, in heaven's name, should she have a colour?" he demanded. "For