Mildred raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. She began to sing softly again from Sullivan's opera:
"'To say she is his mother is an utter bit of folly,
Heigh-ho, our Strephon is a rogue!
Perhaps his brain is addled and it's very melancholy,
Taradiddle'"—
"Stop that nonsensical song."
"My dear, Gilbert never writes any nonsense. It gives me the utmost pleasure to warble his lays. He is the only librettist in the world who says just what he wants to say, and it happens to rhyme. Pardon me if I appeared to be personal. That was another happening. So you think you ought to have sonny at home. Anybody else?"
"Certainly. Mr. Page."
Mildred pursed her lips into a noiseless whistle.
"Mr. Van Tassel's sister's child," went on Clover firmly. "He has a right to expect an invitation. What is the matter? Don't you like him?"
Mildred made her favorite grimace of faint repugnance, and her head dropped to one side. "I've had a good deal of him by proxy," she answered. "I'm very much afraid he's a worthy young man."
"Well, what of it?"
"Oh, you know I can't endure worthy young men," smiled the girl provokingly.