d hari-karis that would have ensued.

It was pink--the pink of her cheeks to a shade. And scattered about it
were birds, and butterflies, and snaky, emaciated dragons, with backs
like saw-teeth, and prodigious fangs, and claws, and very curly tails,
such as they breed in Nankeen plates and used to breed on packages of
fire-crackers--all done in gold, the gold of her hair. Moreover, one
might catch a glimpse of her neck--which was a manifest favour of the
gods--and about it mysterious, lacy white things intermingling with
divers tiny blue ribbons. I saw her in it once--by accident.

And now I fancy, as she stood rigid with indignation, her cheeks
flushed, it must have been a heady spectacle to note how their
shell-pink repeated the pink of her fantastic garment like a chromatic
echo; and how her sunny hair, a thought loosened, a shade dishevelled,
clung heavily about her face, a golden snare for eye and heart; and
how her own eyes, enormous, cerulean--twin sapphires such as in the
old days might have ransomed a brace of emperors--grew wistful like a
child's who has been punished and does not know exactly why; and how
her petulant mouth quivered and the long black lashes, golden at the
roots, quivered, too--ah, yes, it must have been a heady spectacle.

"_Now_," she announced, "I see plainly what he intends doing. He is
going to destroy that will, and burden me once more with a large and
influential fortune. I don't want it, and I won't take it, and he
might just as well understand that in the very beginning. I don't care
if Uncle Fred did leave it to me--I didn't ask him to, did I? Besides,
he was a very foolish old man--if he had left the money to Billy
_everything_ would have been all right. That's always the way--my
dolls are invariably stuffed with sawdust, and I _never_ have a dear
gazelle to glad me with his dappled hide, but when he comes to know me
well he falls upon the buttered side--or something to that effect. I
hate poetry, anyhow--it's so mushy!"

And this from the Miss Hugonin who a week ago was interested in the
French _decadents_ and partial to folk-songs from the Romaic! I think
we may fairly deduce that the reign of Felix Kennaston is over. The
king is dead; and Margaret's thoughts and affections and her very
dreams have fallen loyally to crying, Long live the king--his Majesty
Billy the First.

"Oh!" said Margaret, with an indignant gasp, what time her eyebrows
gesticulated, "I think Billy Woods