Mrs. McBain, generally known to her intimates as "Aunt Eliza," was a
connection of Nan's on the paternal side. She was a lady of Scottish
antecedents and Early Victorian tendencies, to whom the modern woman and
her methods were altogether anathema. She regarded her niece as
walking--or, more truly, pirouetting aggressively--along the road which
leads to destruction.

Penelope folded a pair of renovated stockings and tossed them into her
work-basket.

"The Seymours want us to dine there on Thursday. I suppose you can?" she
asked.

"With all the pleasure in life. Their chef is a dream," murmured Nan
reminiscently.

"As though you cared!" scoffed Penelope.

Nan lit a cigarette and seated herself on the humpty-dumpty cushion by
the fire.

"But I do care--extremely." she averred. "It isn't my little inside
which cares. It's a purely external feeling which likes to have
everything just right. If it's going to be a dinner, I want it perfect
from soup to savoury."

Penelope regarded her with a glint of amusement.

"You're such a demanding person."