“His voice?  I don’t remember anything about it.”

“Yes, you do—­you must; it is a very remarkable one; so mellow, so quiet, yet so modulated.”

“Well, I do remember now; it is rather a pleasant voice—­for a man.”

“Rather a pleasant voice!” repeated Lucy, opening her eyes; “why, it is a voice to charm serpents.”

“Ha! ha!  It has not charmed him one yet, you see.”

This speech was not in itself pellucid; but these sweet ladies among themselves have so few topics compared with men, and consequently beat their little manor so often, that they seize a familiar idea, under any disguise, with the rapidity of lightning.

“Oh, charmers are charm-proof,” replied Lucy; “that is the only reason why.  I am sure of that.”  Then she reflected awhile.  “It is his natural voice, is it not?  Did you ever hear him speak in any other?  Think.”

“Never.”

“Then he must be a good man.  Apropos, is Mr. Hardie a good man, aunt?”

“Why, of course he is.”

“How do you know?”

“I never heard of any scandal against him.”

“Oh, I don’t mean your negative goodness.  You never heard anything against me out of doors.”

“Well, and are you not a good girl?”

“Me, aunt?  Why, you know I am not.”

“Bless me, what have you done?”

“I have done nothing, aunt,” exclaimed Lucy, “and the good are never nullities.  Then I am not open, which is a great fault in a character.  But I can’t help it!  I can’t!  I can’t!”

“Well, you need not break your heart for that.  You will get over it before you have been married a year.  Look at me; I was as shy as any of you at first going off, but now I can speak my mind; and a good thing too, or what would become of me among the selfish set?”

“Meaning me, dear?”

“No.  Divide it among you.  Come, this is idle talk.  Men’s voices, and whether they are good, bad, or indifferent, as if that mattered a pin, provided their incomes are good and their manners endurable.  I want a little serious conversation with you.”

“Do you?” and Lucy colored faintly; “with all my heart.”

“We go to the Hunts’ ball the day after to-morrow, Lucy; I suppose you know that?  Now what on earth am I to wear? that is the question.  There is no time to get a new dress made, and I have not got one—­”

“That you have not worn at least once.”

“Some of them twice and three times;” and the B looked aghast at the state of nudity to which she was reduced.  Lucy sidled toward the door.

“Since you consult me, dear, I advise you to wear what I mean to wear myself.”

“Ah! what a capital idea! then we shall pass for sisters.  I dare say I have got some old thing or other that will match yours; but you had better tell me at once what you do mean to wear.”

“A gown, a pair of gloves, and a smirk”; and with this heartless expression of nonchalance Lucy glided away and escaped the impending shower.