"Never mind him, Plantagenet; do go on," exclaims Cecil, impatiently.
"Well, she was in the habit of wearing a black bonnet, as it happens," says Mr. Potts, with suppressed ire; "but just before the auction she bought a new one, and it was pink."
"Oh, why on earth don't you say blue?" expostulates Luttrell, with a groan.
"Because it was pink. I suppose I know my mother's bonnet better than you?"
"But, my dear fellow, think of her complexion! And at first, I assure you, you always used to make it blue."
"I differ with you," puts in Sir Penthony, politely. "I always understood it was a sea-green."
"It was pink," reiterates Plantagenet, firmly. "Well, we had a cook who was very fond of my mother——"
"I thought it was a footman. And it really was a footman, you know," says Luttrell, reproachfully.
"The butler, you mean, Luttrell," exclaims Sir Penthony, with exaggerated astonishment at his friend's want of memory.
"And she, having most unluckily heard my mother say she feared she could not attend the auction, made up her mind to go herself and at all hazards secure the coveted mirror for her——"