fashion. She wore a white dress, with a silver girdle that set off the
beautiful outlines of her figure to great advantage, and with her a
perfume seemed to pass, perhaps from the roses on her bosom.

"A beautiful woman," thought the Colonel to himself, as she came in, and
he was no mean or inexperienced judge. "A beautiful woman, but a regular
lotus-eater."

"How do you do, Uncle Richard?" said Mary, pausing about six feet away
and holding out her hand. "I heard you scolding my poor dad about his
bow-window. In fact, you woke me up; and, do you know, you used exactly
the same words as you did at your visit after we came down from London
last year."

"Bless me, my dear," said the Colonel, struggling to his feet, and
kissing his niece upon the forehead, "what a memory you have got! It
will get you into trouble some day."

"I daresay--me, or somebody else. But history repeated itself, uncle,
that is all. The same sleepy Me in a lounge-chair, the same hot day,
the same blue-bottle, and the same You scolding the same Daddy about
the same window. Though what on earth dad's window can matter to anyone
except himself, I can't understand."

"I daresay not, my dear; I daresay not. We can none of us know
everything--not even latter day young ladies--but I suggest that a few
hours with Fergussen's 'Handbook of Architecture' might enlighten you on
the point."

Mary reflected, but the only repartee that she could conjure at