manners at a boys' boarding school."

Zell's great black eyes blazed for a moment toward the speaker, who
was a young lady reclining on a lounge near the window, and who in
appearance must have been the counterpart of Mrs. Allen herself as she
had looked twenty-three years before. In contrast with her sharp,
annoyed tone, her cheeks and eyes were wet with tears.

"What are you crying about?" was Zell's brusque response. "Oh, I see;
a novel. What a ridiculous old thing you are. I never saw you shed a
tear over real trouble, and yet every few days you are dissolved in
brine over Adolph Moonshine's agonies, and Seraphina's sentiment,
which any sensible person can see is caused by dyspepsia. No such
whipped syllabub for me, but real life."

"And what does 'real life' mean for you, I would like to know, but
eating, dressing, and flirting?" was the acid retort.

"Though you call me 'child,' I have lived long enough to learn that
eating, dressing, and flirting, and while you are about it you might
as well add drinking, is the 'real life' of most of the ladies of our
set. Indeed, if my poor memory does not fail me, I have seen you
myself take a turn at these things sufficiently often to make the
sublime scorn of your tone a little inconsistent."

As these barbed arrows flew, the tears rapidly exhaled from the hot
cheeks of the young lady on the sofa. Her elegant languor vanished,
and she started up; but Mrs. Allen now interfered, and in tones harsh
and high, very different from the previous delicate murmurs,
exclaimed: