As I was attired in a remarkably old college blazer and a pair of yellow Moorish slippers bought a couple of years ago in Tangier, and as my hair was straight on end, owing to a habit of passing my fingers through it while I work, my attitude perhaps did not strike a spectator as being so noble as I had imagined.

I took advantage of the anti-climax, however, to bring my aunt from the balcony to the centre of the room, where Dora joined us.
"Well, has mother prevailed ?" "My dear Dora," said I, politely, "how can you imagine it could possibly be a question of persuasion ?" "That might be taken two ways," said Dora.

"Like Palmerston's 'Dear Sir, I'll lose no time in reading your book.'" Dora is a minx.
"I fear," said I, "that my pedantic historical sense must venture to correct you.

It was Lord Beaconsfield." "Well, he got it from Palmerston," insisted Dora.
"You children must not quarrel," interposed my aunt, in the fond, maternal tone which I find peculiarly unpleasant.

"Marcus will see how his engagements stand, and let us know in a day or two." "When do you propose to start ?" I asked.
"Quite soon.