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"Why, hardly, if I'm behindhand now. Is it so fine as that?"

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

I laughed insolently. The young ladies sparkled, and so did Miss Harper, as she asked him who had been the proxy.

"My dear Smith," said Miss Rothvelt, "keep your trust. But if I part here with these two kind gentlemen--"

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