Meg slunk in, and sat at the window within earshot.
Gwendoline had asked her on entering, MS. in hand, if she was going to read a story. "I am sure you could write a most bewitching story about that beautiful lady," the Beauty had averred.
"No, no, no!" said Meg, retreating into the veranda.
She had crept back in time to hear Laura Harris read her tale. It appeared to be the history of a confectioner, who owned a famous west-end shop, which was in vogue with the fashionable and wealthy. Ladies sat there and feasted. The description of its charms had apparently such an overwhelming attraction for the authoress that she could not prevail on her pen to quit it and pass on with her story. There was a gigantic wedding-cake, with a sugar-almond top, fully a yard high. The cream puffs, the jam tarts, the ices, the chocolates, the sweets were piled on with profusion.
The conclusion of this story was not arrived at.
Ursula rapped the table with her paper-knife.
"Story declined with thanks," she said briefly.
"Why?" asked Laura indignantly.
"Because, notwithstanding the delicious cakes, we consider it in bad taste," replied Ursula, using the editorial "we" with fine effect.