tone of cordial liking, "_How_ d'ye do?" and to each of the
young people as she shook hands in turn with them, "How d'ye
_do_, dear?" She was no longer so pretty as she must have once
been; but an air of distinction and a delicate charm of manner
remained to her from her fascinating youth.

Young Sewell pushed her a chair to the table, and she dropped softly
into it, after acknowledging Barker's presentation by Mrs. Sewell
with a kindly glance that probably divined him.

"You must dine with us," said Mrs. Sewell. "You can call it lunch."

"No, I can't, Mrs. Sewell," said Miss Vane. "I could once, and
should have said with great pleasure, when I went away, that I had
been lunching at the Sewells; but I can't now. I've reformed. What
have you got for dinner?"

"Roast beef," said Sewell.

"Nothing I dislike more," replied Miss Vane. "What else?" She put on
her glasses, and peered critically about the table.

"Stewed tomatoes, baked sweet potatoes, macaroni."

"How unimaginative! What are you going to have afterwards?"

"Cottage pudding."

"The very climax of the commonplace. Well!" Miss Vane began to pull
off her gloves, and threw her veil back over her shoulder. "I will