About fifty-five, looked forty, acted thirty.

Fond of boxing and immediately on her arrival hunted up the butler to spar
with him, being a bit off condition.

"I've no use for Bill," she would say, "with his custard pie ideals, his
soft-bosomed rooms and his purple and fine _lingerie_."

Then she'd embrace her nephew wildly, and promise to make him her heir.

She looked at Warble appraisingly.

"You're a tuppenny, ha'penny chit, with eyes like two holes burnt in a
blanket, and a nose Mr. Micawber might have waited for, but you'll do. You
get everything you want, without effort, and that's a rare trait. What do
you think of me?"

Warble made a face at her. "Corking!" screamed Aunt Dressie, "you come
straight from heaven and you've slid into my soul. Does Bill love you?"

"Not adequately."

"H'm. You love him?"

"Oh, yeth!"

"All right--love and grow thin, and then he'll come round. Or get a case of
ptomaine poisoning--that'd help. But don't take the matter too lightly. If
you want your husband, get him, if you don't, then let him go.