Dorothy paused in the midst of a bite.  “Tante Lydia, you know if she said ‘mauve’ you’d want ‘pink’ and ‘mauve’ if she said ‘pink,’ and all you really need is somebody to argue with; and, besides, they both look the same at night.”

Mrs. Mellows pouted fat pink lips, and looked more than ever an elderly infant about to burst into tears.

“Dorothy,” she sniffed, “I do think you are the most trying child!  I only wish to look well for your sake.  I have no vanity—­why should I have?  It’s only my desire to be presentable on your account.”  Her blue orbs suffused with tears.

Dorothy leaped from the divan, to the imminent danger of the breakfast tray.  “Now, Aunt Lydia, don’t be foolish.  I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, and, besides, you know you are the really, truly belle of the ball.  Why, you bad thing!  Where were you all last evening?  Didn’t I have to go after you—­and into the conservatory, at that!  And what did I find, pray—­you and a beautiful white-haired beau, with a goatee!  And now you say you are only dressing for me—­Oh, fie!—­oh, fie!—­oh, fie!” She kissed her aunt on a moist blue eye, and bounced back to her seat.

The chaperon was mollified and flattered.  “But, my dear,” she returned to the charge, “you know mauve is so unbecoming; if one should become a trifle pale—­”

Dorothy snipped a bit of toast in her aunt’s direction.  “But, why, my dear Lydia,” she teased, “should one ever be pale?  There are first aids to beauty, you know—­and a very nice rouge can be had—­”

“Dorothy, how can you!” exclaimed the lady, overcome with horror.  “Rouge!  What are you saying, and what are young girls coming to!  At your age, I’d never heard the word, no, indeed.  And, besides, my love, it is indecorous of you to address me as ‘Lydia.’  I am your mother’s sister, remember.”

Her charge giggled joyously.  “Nobody would believe it, never in the world!  You aren’t one day older than I am, not a day.  If you were, you wouldn’t care whether it was mauve or pink—­nor flirt in the conservatories.”

“You’re teasing me!” was Mrs. Mellows’ belated exclamation.  “And, my dear, I don’t think it quite nice, really.”

The insistent call of the telephone arrested the conversation.  Dorothy took up the receiver, and Aunt Lydia became all attention.

“Hello!—­Oh, it’s you again—­I thought I rang off—­Oh, really—­no, I’m not!”

“Who is it?” questioned Aunt Lydia in a sibilant whisper.

Dorothy went on talking, carefully refraining from any mention of names.  “Yes—­did you?—­that’s awfully kind—­yes, I love violets; no, they haven’t come, by messenger—­how extravagant!  No, I’m not going out just yet—­not in this get up.  What color?  Pink—­and a lace cap—­a duck of a lace cap.  Send the photographs around—­Oh, that’s all right; Aunt Lydia is here—­aren’t