"Trix, you are an impertinent minx! My gowns are decent and fit my morals, and I would as soon change the cover on the Manning family Bible. You young people have no longer any sense of proportion; your skirts are so skin-tight you might all be 'artist's models,' and your manners and your disgraceful slang are about as unlaced as the bohemians. If your refined grandmother Manning could move in her portrait frame, she would most certainly turn her back to you and her shocked countenance to the wall."
To-day she lifted her tortoise-shell lorgnette to examine the rather unusual pattern of Professor Cleveden's black onyx sleeve buttons, which represented tarantulas with prominent diamond eyes.
"Noel, are we all permanently arranged in trios? Because, if so, you have been cruelly unkind in condemning the professor to sit next to an orthodox old woman who knows no more science than a blind kitten, who is no bugologist, no apostle to moths, and who bitterly disapproves of crucifying butterflies on pins."
"Aunt Trina, you will not be allowed to monopolize each other, no matter how earnestly you both may desire to do so. Shall we change groups once a day, or at each meal, in order that the collective wit and wisdom may be impartially distributed?"
"I suggest that all names be deposited in a box and that we draw for places," said Mr. Stapleton, fearful of losing his neighbor, Miss Roberts.
"Dana, what a rash challenge to chance! She can be spiteful, that classic, grinning old jade, and might roll up three women to one table, leaving a solitary charming belle—presumably myself—to the tender mercies of five furious men. Fancy the impotent wrath of the beauless trio robbed of their legitimate prey! Noel, do not risk any such dire disaster, but try the democratic plan of rotation in office, whereby I shall afflict each of you for only a few hours of my term. What delicious apricots! Surely old Amos Lea did not grow them?"
Miss Manning held up a twig on which twin, luscious apricots glowed.
"They were ripened by the hot suns and spiced by Pacific breezes in lower California, where I have a friend who now and then sends a hamper from his fruit farm. Beauties, are they not? My old gardener Amos, jealous of the fame of his own orchard, snorted contemptuously and assured me they tasted like stale sawdust."
"Does he still employ David, St. Paul, and the prophets as proxies to curse his enemies?" asked Professor Cleveden, helping himself liberally to cherries.
Catching sight of Eliza Mitchell's rebuking eyes, Mr. Herriott laughed.