“Then they must be in some part of it I have not visited. Are they in the kitchen?” (with a little saucy sneer.)
“No, they are in the library.”
“In the lib—Ah! le malin!”
“They were never seen in the drawing-room, and never will be.”
“Yet surely they must have lived in nature before they were embalmed in print,” said Lucy, interrogating the ceiling again.
“The nearest approach you will meet to these paragons is Reginald Talboys,” said Fountain, stoutly.
“Uncle, I do love you;” and Lucy rose with Juno-like slowness and dignity, and, leaning over the old boy, kissed him with sudden small fury.
“Why?” asked he, eagerly, connecting this majestic squirt of affection with his last speech.
“Because you are such a nice, dear, sarcastic thing. Let us drink tea in the library to-morrow, then that will be an approach to—”
With this illegitimate full stop the conversation ended, and Miss Fountain took a candle and sauntered to bed.