to go after you--and into the conservatory, at that! And what did I
find, pray--you and a beautiful white-haired beau, with a goatee! And
now you say you are _only_ dressing for _me_--Oh, fie!--oh, fie!--oh,
fie!" She kissed her aunt on a moist blue eye, and bounced back to her
seat.

The chaperon was mollified and flattered. "But, my dear," she returned
to the charge, "you know mauve is so unbecoming; if one should become a
trifle pale--"

Dorothy snipped a bit of toast in her aunt's direction. "But, why, my
dear Lydia," she teased, "should one ever be pale? There are first aids
to beauty, you know--and a very _nice_ rouge can be had--"

"Dorothy, how can you!" exclaimed the lady, overcome with horror.
"Rouge! What _are_ you saying, and what _are_ young girls coming to! At
your age, I'd never heard the word, no, indeed. And, besides, my love,
it is indecorous of you to address me as 'Lydia.' I am your mother's
sister, remember."

Her charge giggled joyously. "Nobody would believe it, never in the
world! You aren't one day older than I am, not a day. If you were, you
wouldn't care whether it was mauve or pink--nor flirt in the
conservatories."

"You're teasing me!" was Mrs. Mellows' belated exclamation. "And, my
dear, I don't think it _quite_ nice, really."

The insistent call of the telephone arrested the conversation. Dorothy
took up the receiver, and Aunt Lydia became all attention.