stepping into the place that should have been the inheritance of
her husband and of her son. Rather has she devised to adopt me,
to guide my ambitions and to point out my duties as the head of
the house. If I refuse to be adopted, avoid ambitions and
disclaim duties, the fault lies not with her good-will. She is a
well-preserved worldly woman of fifty-five, and having begun to
dye her hair in the peroxide of hydrogen era has not the
curiosity to abandon the practice and see what colour will
result. I wish I could like her. I can't. She purrs. Some
day I feel she will scratch. She received me graciously.

"My dear Marcus. At last! Didn't you know I have been in town
ever since Easter?"

"No," said I. "I am afraid I didn't." Which was true. "Why
didn't you tell me?"

"I would have asked you to dinner, but you will never come. As
for At Home cards I never dream of sending them to you. It is a
waste of precious half-penny stamps."

"You might have written me a nice little letter about nothing at
all," I suggested.

"For you to say 'What is that woman worrying me with her silly
letters for?' I know what you men are." She looked arch.

This is precisely what I should have said. As I am not an
inventive liar, I could only smile feebly. I am never at my ease
with Aunt Jessica. I am not the kind of person to afford her