sight of the well-dressed, good-looking man in the corner, and her
bearing changed as though by a conjuring trick. She flushed sensitively,
stroked her blue serge frock, composed her immature features to the
mask of the finished lady paying a call, and summoned every faculty to
aid her in looking her best. 'So this chit is the daughter of our
admired Leonora,' thought Twemlow.

'I suppose you don't remember old Mr. Twemlow, my dear?' said Hannah
after she had proudly introduced her niece.

'Oh, auntie! how silly you are! Of course I remember him quite well. I
really can't stay, auntie.'

'You'll stay and drink this cup of tea with me,' Hannah insisted firmly,
and Milly was obliged to submit. It was not often that the old lady
exercised authority; but on that afternoon the famous New York visitor
was just as much an audience for Hannah as for Hannah's greatniece.

Twemlow could think of nothing to say to this pretty pouting creature
who had rushed in from a later world and dissipated the atmosphere of
mediævalism, and so he addressed himself to Meshach upon the eternal
subject of the staple trade. The women at the table talked quietly but
self-consciously, and Twemlow saw Milly forced to taste parkin after
three refusals. Even while still masticating the viscid unripe parkin,
Milly rose to depart. She bent down and dutifully grazed with her lips
the cheek of the parkin-maker. 'Good-bye, auntie; good-bye, uncle.' And
in an elegant, mincing tone, 'Good afternoon, Mr. Twemlow.'

'I suppose you've just got to be on time at the next place?' he said
quizzically, smiling at her vivid youth in spite of himself. 'Something