“A noun’s a name.  As, candy, heart, slipper.”

“What’s a compound noun?”

“Two names,—­as chicken salad,—­Philip Van Reypen,—­moonlight.”

“What’s a mood?”

“Something you fall into,—­as a ditch,—­or love.”

“What is an article?”

“A piece of fancy work for sale at a fair.”

“What’s a conjunction?”

“Anything that joins,—­as the marriage ceremony, or hooks and eyes.”

“Good.  Now for arithmetic.  If you are at home of an evening, and a chap calls on you, and then I come to call, and take half your attention from him, what is left?”

“The chap!”

“Right!  Now, definitions.  What do you mean by forever?”

“Until to-morrow!” returned Betty, laughing.

“Never?”

“Not until to-morrow!”

“How do you spell No?”

“Y-e-s.”

“Oh, Betty,” exclaimed Patty, laughing, “I didn’t know you were so witty!”

“Good gracious! don’t call me that! Here, stop this examination right now!  I won’t be called witty.  Why, don’t you know—­

“’Though you’re sweet and though you’re pretty,
Men won’t love you if you’re witty!’

“I’m always afraid of not being loved!”

Miss Gale looked so frightened at this very idea, that they all broke into laughter.

“You should worry!” declared Bill.  “You haven’t enough wit to do any great harm.  Or, at least, if you have, you’ve compensating foolishness—­I mean—­that is—­”

“There, there, Billee,” counselled Patty, “you’d better stop,—­you’re just getting in deeper with every word.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” and Beatrice shrugged her shoulders, “I need to be brought up with a round turn now and then.  I’m too intellectual,—­I know.”

She purposely assumed a vacant, stupid expression and folded her hands helplessly in her lap.

“She’s a hummer,” Channing remarked in an aside to Patty, as further hilarity followed Betty’s fooling.

“I like her lots,” Patty returned.  “She’s a frivolous little thing, but thoroughly sweet and dear.  She adores Fleurette.”

“Aha, little mother!  So that’s the way to your good graces, is it?  I too adore Fleurette.”

“But you’re already in my good graces,—­and have been for years.”

“So?  Then,”—­Chick’s tone grew wheedlesome,—­“invite me up here often,—­won’t you?”

“Now I should have thought you meant because of my daughter’s charms, if your glance hadn’t wandered toward Miss Gale, even as you spoke!”

“Both, fair lady,—­both.  I adore Fleurette as the delightful daughter of a delightful mother.  May I not also admire the delightful neighbour?”

“Indeed, you may.  And you have a standing invitation to come up here as often as you like.  I’m going to entertain a lot this spring and summer,—­and you’re a really useful house guest”