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"What does what mean, aunt?" inquires Doris demurely, and meeting the astonished stare of her aunt with unmoved gravity.

"Why, your being down here, dressed up in a gown which I am quite sure Miss Renny was never guilty of making. You are never going to dine?"

"Yes, I am, aunt, of course, or I shouldn't be down here at all. Mother says she means me to appear a little at home before really coming out. She wants me to get a little into the ways of society."

"Ways of fiddle-sticks, I should say!" rejoins Lady Woodhouse tartly. "In my young days one was never seen or heard of until properly introduced. Let me see, how old are you, child—seventeen, eighteen?"

"Seventeen and a half, aunt."

Lady Woodhouse holds up her hands in horror. "Not even eighteen! What is the world coming to? But there, your mother is one of the most injudicious women I know, and always will be, I suppose. Well, Mr. Hugh Horton, and how are you? I suppose you two young people are going down together, eh?"

"No such luck, I'm afraid. I believe I'm to take one of the other ladies—Mrs. Danvers, in fact."