re born to unlimited caps and spotless
aprons, is undoubtedly obtuse. She presents her back hair and
heels--that would not have disgraced an elephant--to Miss Massereene's
call, and goes on calmly with her occupation of shaking out and hanging
up to dry the garments she has just brought.

"Shall I go and call her?" asks Luttrell, with some remains of grace
and an air of intense fatigue.

"Not worth your while," says John, with all a man's delicious
consideration for a man; "she must turn in a moment, and then she will
see us."

For two whole minutes, therefore, they gaze in rapt silence upon the
unconscious Sarah. Presently Mr. Massereene breaks the eloquent
stillness.

"There is nothing," says he, mildly, "that so clearly declares the
sociability--the _bon camaraderie_, so to speak--that ought to
exist in every well-brought-up family as the sight of washing done at
home. There is such a happy mingling and yet such a thorough disregard
of sex about it. It is 'Hail, fellow! well met!' all through. If you
will follow Sarah's movements for a minute longer you will better
understand what I mean. There! now she is spreading out Molly's
pale-green muslin, in which she looked so irresistible last week. And
there goes Daisy's pinafore, and Bobby's pantaloons; and now she is
pausing to remove a defunct grasshopper from Renee's bonnet! What a
charming picture it all makes, so full of life! There go Molly's
stock----"

"John," interrupts Molly, indignantly, who has been frowning heavily at
him for some time without the smallest result.

"If you say another word," puts in Luttrell, burying his face in the
grass, with a deep groan, "if you go one degree further, I shall
faint."

"And now comes my shirt," goes on John, in the same even tone, totally
unabashed.

"My dear John!" exclaims Letitia, much scandalized, speaking in a very
superior tone, which she fondly but erroneously believes to be stern
and commanding, "I beg you will pursue the subject no further. We have
no desire whatever to learn any particulars about your shirts."

"And why not, my dear?" demands Mr. Massereene, his manner full of mild
but firm expostulation. "What theme so worthy of prolonged discussion
as a clean shirt? Think of the horrors that encompass all the 'great
unwashed,' and then perhaps you will feel as I do. In my opinion it is
a topic on which volumes might be written: if I had time I would write
them myself. And if you will give yourself