uppose, because I had heard so much
about her) so did mine. It was only a quiet dinner-party, and Miss
Chislett had brought out her needlework, some gossamer lace affair,
and Leo leant over the sofa where she sat, playing with the contents
of her workbox. Polly's eyes and mine were not the only ones turned
towards them. Ours was not the only interest in the future Lady Damer.

Aunt Maria carried Polly off to the piano to "give us a little music,"
and I sat down and stultified myself with an album at the table, and
Frances Chislett chatted with Sir Lionel. They were close by me, and
every word they said was audible. It was the veriest chit-chat, and
Leo's remarks on the little bunch of charms and knicknacks that he
found in the workbox seemed trivial to foolishness. "I'd no idea Damer
was so empty-headed," I thought, and I rather despised Miss Chislett
for smiling at his feeble conversation.

"I often wonder what's the use of farthings," I heard him say as he
turned one over in the bunch of knicknacks. "They won't buy anything
(unless it's a box of matches). They only help tradesmen to cheat when
they're 'selling off.'"

"I beg your pardon," said Miss Chislett, "I have bought most charming
things for a farthing each."

"So have I," said I, turning round on my chair, and joining in the
conversation, which seemed less purposeless after I began to take part
in it. Leo looked at us both with a puzzled air.

"Frying-pans, for instance," said Miss Chislett.

"--and gridirons," said I.

"Plates, knives, and forks," said the heiress.

"--and flat irons," I concluded; playing involuntarily with the blob
of lead which still hung at my watch-chain.

Polly had finished her performance, and was now standing near us. She
understood the allusion, and laughed.

"Do _you_ know what they're talking about?" asked Sir Lionel, going
up to her. I sat down by the heiress.

"Were you ever at Oakford?" she asked, turning her grey eyes on me.
She spoke almost abruptly, and with a touch of imperiousness that
suddenly recalled to me where I had seen those eyes before.

"Certainly," said I, "and at the tinsmith's."

"What were you doing there?" she asked, and after all these years
there was no mistaking the accent and gesture of the little lady of
the grey beaver. Before she had well begun her apology for the
question, I had answered it,

"BUYING A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING."

* * * * *

"Well,