Terry's remarks. "The
Fitzgeralds will be there, of course. Bella is considered a very
handsome girl, but I don't think you will like her much."

"No, no, she is not at all our Monica's style," says Miss Penelope,
stroking the pretty cheek near her with her mittened hand. "Yet she has
a fine skin."

"Ay, and a fine temper under it, or I'm a Dutchman," says Miss
Priscilla. "And she is more peculiar than handsome; but men admire her,
so _we_ say nothing."

"Is she tall?" asks Monica, anxiously, who is a little thing herself,
and looks even smaller than she really is because of her slender,
girlish figure. She wonders in a vague, uncomfortable fashion
whether--whether most men like tall women best.

"Tall? yes, and large in proportion; and as for her _manners_," says
Miss Priscilla, in her severest tone, "in my opinion they are simply
unbearable. Modesty in my days was a virtue, nowadays it is as _naught_.
Bella Fitzgerald is never content unless she has every man in the room
at her side, and goodness alone knows what it is she says to them. The
way she sets her cap at that poor boy Ronayne, just because he has
fallen in for that property, is quite revolting."

"And a mere lad, too," says Miss Penelope.

Monica draws a breath of relief. Perhaps if Miss Fitzgerald likes Mr.
Ronayne she will not care to practise her fascinations upon----any other
man.

"How old is she?" she asks, feeling deeply interested in the
conversation.

"She _says_ she is twenty-four," says Miss Priscilla, with an eloquent
sniff. "There is nothing easier to say than that. I _won't_ be
uncharitable, my dear Penelope,--you needn't look at me like that,--but
this I must say, she looks every hour of eight and twenty."

"Her mother ought to know," says Miss Penelope.

"She ought, indeed," grimly. "But, as from the way she dresses we may
reasonably conclude she thinks _herself_ nineteen, I suppose she has
lost her memory on all points."

"Her father, Otho Fitzgerald, was the same," says Miss Penelope,
reflectively. "He never could bear the idea of age. He was one who saw
nothing honorable in it. Gray hairs with him were a crime."

"So he used to dye them," says Miss Priscilla, maliciously; "and when he
got warm the dye used to melt, and (unknown to him) run all down his
cheek."

"Oh, Priscilla, how you remember things? Dear, dear, I think I see him
now," says Miss Penelope. And here the two old ladies, overcome by this
comical recollectio