"Why, child!" the mature Cupid protested, "_I_ wasn't going to open your
letters. Indeed, I think you are positively insulting to me! Here,
that's from your cousin Euphemia, I know her hand; and that's just a
circular, I'm sure--and Tappe's bill. My dear, you've been perfectly
foolish about hats this winter. This is a handwriting I don't know, but
it's smart stationery--and, dear me, look at all these little cards. I
really don't see how the postman bothers to see that they're all
delivered; they're such little slippery things--more teas--and bridge."

"And how about yours?" questioned Dorothy, amused. "What did you get?"

Aunt Lydia bridled. "Oh, nothing much. Some cards, a bill or two--"

"Bill or coo, you mean," said her niece with a playful clutch at her
chaperon's lap-full of missives. "If that isn't a man's letter, I'll eat
my cap, ribbons and all--and that one, and that one."

Mrs. Mellows rose hastily, gathered her flowing negligee about her and
beat a retreat.

She turned at the door, "You're a rude little girl, and I shan't count
on you to go to Bendel's. If you want me, I'll be here from half past
two to four, when I go for bridge." With the air of a Christian martyr
she betook herself to the seclusion of her own rooms.

Dorothy suffered herself to be dressed as she opened her mail. Aunt
Lydia had diagnosed it with almost psychic exactness, and its mystery
had ceased to be interesting. Last of all she opened a plain envelope
with typewritten directions. The enclosure, also typewritten, gave a