“Good gracious, Rosie!” interrupted Hetty Jones.  “You don’t mean to say you took Propriety to that house?”

“Yes; why not?  It’s the jolliest house in Kingsdene.”

“But fancy taking poor Propriety there.  What did she say?”

“Say?  She scolded a good deal.”

“Scolded!  Poor little proper thing!  How I should have liked to have seen her.  Did she open her purse and exhibit its emptiness to the company at large?  Did she stand on a chair and lecture the frivolous people who assemble in that house on the emptiness of life?  Oh, how I wish I could have looked on at the fun!”

“You’d have beheld an edifying sight then, my dear,” said Rosalind.  “Prissie’s whole behavior was one to be copied.  No words can describe her tact and grace.”

“But what did she do, Rosie?  I wish you would speak out and tell us.  You know you are keeping something back.”

“Whenever she saw me she scolded me, and she tripped over my dress several times.”

“Oh, you dear, good, patient Rosalind, what a bore she must have been.”

“No, she wasn’t, for I scarcely saw anything of her.  She amused herself capitally without me, I can tell you.”

“Amused herself?  Propriety amused herself?  How diverting!  Could she stoop to it?”

“She did.  She stooped and—­ conquered.  She secured for herself an adorer.”

“Rosalind, how absurd you are!  Poor, Plain Propriety!”

“As long as I live I shall hate the letter P,” suddenly interrupted Annie Day, “for since that disagreeable girl has got into the house we are always using it.”

“Never mind, Rosalind; go on with your story,” said Miss Jones.  “What did Plain Propriety do?”

Rosalind threw up her hands, rolled her eyes skyward and uttered the terse remark: 

“She flirted!”

“Oh, Rosie! who would flirt with her?  I suppose she got hold of some old rusty, musty don.  But then I do not suppose you’d find that sort of man at the Elliot-Smiths’.”

This remark came from Lucy Marsh.  Rosalind Merton, who was leaning her fair head against a dark velvet cushion, looked as if she enjoyed the situation immensely.

“What do you say to a Senior Wrangler?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“Rosalind, what—­ not the Senior Wrangler?”

Rosalind nodded.

“Oh! oh! oh! what could he see—­ Geoffrey Hammond, of all people!  He’s so exclusive too.”

“Well,” said Hetty Jones, standing up reluctantly, for she felt it was time to return to her neglected studies, “wonders will never cease!  I could not have supposed that Mr. Hammond would condescend to go near the Elliot-Smiths’, and most certainly I should never have guessed that he would look at a girl like Priscilla Peel.”

“Well, he flirted with her,” said Rosalind, “and she with him.  They were so delighted with one another that I could scarcely get Prissie away when it was time to leave.  They looked quite engrossed—­ you know the kind of air—­ there was no mistaking it!”