"Marquis or Valet?" murmured Lesley, with a quaint little smile. "It sounds like the title of an old-fashioned story."
"For goodness' sake don't use it," begged her aunt. "The material isn't worthy of you."
"Oh, my stories are always new-fashioned," said Lesley. "You know, the critics reproach me for running ahead of the times in my ideas."
"You certainly are rather unexpected," replied Mrs. Loveland. "Sometimes I almost wish you were a tiny—just a tiny bit more conventional."
"You wished it when I said 'poor fellow.'"
"Oh, but you didn't really mean that."
"I did," persisted Lesley. "I should be disappointed in myself if I thought I could fail to recognise a valet when I saw one. And I hate being disappointed—in anyone."
"It must be disappointing to an author—one who has to be a student of character," assented Aunt Barbara, soothingly.
"Even when she's forgotten all about that part of herself for awhile, owing to—interruptions."
The dovelike little lady looked hurt. "Oh, my dear, I do beg your pardon!" she cried. "Of course I know, at this time of day—I'm only in the library on sufferance."