ut, my dear young lady," I said, "I have no intention of writing of
your people, as you call them."

"You write of knights and lords and ladies and queens. You do--or you
did--and you certainly know nothing about THEM."

I was quite a bit ruffled. "Indeed!" said I. "You are quite sure of
that, are you?"

"I am," decidedly. "I have read 'The Queen's Amulet' and no queen
on earth--in England, surely--ever acted or spoke like that one. An
American queen might, if there was such a thing."

She laughed and, provoked as I was, I could not help laughing with her.
She had a most infectious laugh.

"My dear young lady--" I began again, but she interrupted me.

"Don't call me that," she protested. "You're not the Archbishop of
Canterbury visiting a girl's school and making a speech. You asked me
not to call you 'Uncle Hosea.' If you say 'dear young lady' to me again
I shall address you publicly as 'dear old Nunky.' Don't be silly."

I laughed again. "But you ARE young," I said.

"Well, what of it. Perhaps neither of us likes to be reminded of our
age. I'm sure you don't; I never saw anyone more sensitive on the
subject. There! there! put away those silly old books and come down to
the drawing-room. I'm going to sing. Mr. Worcester has brought in a lot
of new music."

Reluctantly I closed the volume I had in my hand.

"Very well," I said; "I'll come if you wish. But I shall only be in the
way, as I always am. Mr. Worcester didn't plead for my company, did he?
Do you know I think he will bear up manfully if I don't appear."

She regarded me with disapproval.

"Don't be childish in your old age," she snapped, "Are you coming?"

I went, of course, and--it may have been by way of reward--she sang
several old-fashioned, simple ballads which I had found in a dog's-eared
portfolio in the music cabinet and which I liked because my mother used
to sing them when I was a little chap. I had asked for them before and
she had ignored the request.

This time she sang them and Hephzy, sitting beside me in the darkest
corner reached over and laid a hand on mine.

"Her mother all over again," she whispered. "Ardelia used to sing
those."

Next day, on the tennis court, she played with Herbert Bayliss against
Worcester and me, and seemed to enjoy beating us six to one. The only
regret she expressed was that she and her partner had not made it a
"love set."

Altogether she was a decidedly vitalizing influence, an influence that
w