“No, I think not; that is, it doesn’t work well.  Beforetimes I’ve often written her to buy some little finery to wear for my sake, but my gift has generally been turned into flannels for poor children or to restock the chickenyard of some unfortunate neighbour whose fowls have all died of gapes.  While if I send her the articles themselves, she will prize and wear them, even if the gown was a horse blanket and the ornament a Plymouth Rock rooster to wear on her head.  You know how mothers are about buying things for themselves, don’t you, Mrs. Evan?” he said, turning to me, that I need not consider myself excluded from the conversation.

“I have no mother, but I have two little sons,” I answered.

“Ah, then you will know as soon as they grow old enough to wish to buy things for you,” and somehow the soda water flew up my nose, and I had to grope for my handkerchief.

Miss Lavinia evidently did not like to ask Mrs. Bradford’s age, so she evaded it by asking, “Does your mother wear colours or black, Mr. Bradford?”

“She has worn black ever since my father died; for the last ten years, in fact.  I wish I could persuade her to adopt something that looks more cheerful, for she is the very essence of cheerfulness herself.  Do you think this would be a good time to give a sort of hint by choosing a coloured gown,—­a handsome blue silk, for instance?” “I know precisely how you feel,” said Miss Lavinia, laying her hand upon his sleeve sympathetically, “men never like mourning; but still I advise you not to try the experiment or force the change.  A brocaded black silk gown, with a pretty lace fichu to soften it about the shoulders, and a simple pin to hold it together at the neck,—­how would that suit you?” As she spoke she waved her dainty hands about so expressively in a way of her own that I could seem to see the folds of the material drape themselves.

“That is it!  You have exactly the idea that I could not formulate.  How clever women are!” he exclaimed, and for a minute I really thought he was going to hug Miss Lavinia.

“One other favour.  Will you buy these things for me?  I always feel so out of place and cowardly in the women’s shops where such things are sold.  Will $100 be enough, think you?” he added a trifle anxiously, I thought, as he drew a small envelope from a compartment of his letter book, where it had evidently been stowed away for this special purpose.

“Yes, I can manage nicely with it,” replied Miss Lavinia, cheerfully; “and now you must leave us at once, so that we can do this shopping, and not be too late for luncheon.  Remember, dinner to-night at 6:30.”  “One thing more,” he said, as we turned to leave, “I shall not now have time to present my respects to Miss Latham’s mother as I intended; do you think that she will hold me very rude?  I remember that Miss Sylvia once said her mother was very particular in matters of etiquette,—­about her going out unchaperoned and all that,—­and should not wish her to feel slighted.”  Miss Lavinia assured him very dryly that he need not worry upon that score, that no notice would be taken of the omission.  Not saying, however, that in all probability he was entirely unconsidered, ranked as a tutor and little better than a governess by the elder woman, even if Sylvia had spoken of him as her instructor.