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"Now tell me who is coming to-night, and all about it? Anyone from next door?"

"Why, there is only one of them old enough—Hugh; and he is only nineteen," says Doris with all the conscious superiority of a seventeen-and-a-half-year-old girl. "I believe he is coming, though; with his mother, of course. I wish mother would let me go in to dinner with him; it will be so dreadfully slow and dull if I have to sit through two whole mortal hours with some stupid old fogy who thinks of nothing but his dinner. Well, then, let me see if I can remember the rest. Oh, Honor, don't squeeze so; I can't bear that hook. Good gracious! how tight Madame Cecile has made the waist!"

"You'll have to bear it," says Honor, gasping, and remorselessly pulling and tugging at the refractory hooks and eyes. "I heard Madame Cecile mutter to herself the other day that she must make your waist smaller, so I suppose she means to systematically pull in an inch or so every time she makes you a new dress. Ah—there it is at last! How do you feel?"