"The what?" asks Mrs. Chichester, leaning forward.
"The bodice!" replies Miss Gower severely.
"Oh, auntie!" says her nephew, falling back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. "You shouldn't! You really shouldn't! It's—it's not delicate!"
"What do you mean, Randal?" demands his aunt, with a snort that would have done credit to a war-horse. "To whom are you addressing your remarks? Are you calling me indelicate?"
"Oh no—not for worlds!" says Mrs. Chichester, who is choking with laughter, and who only emerges from behind her fan to say this, and go back again. "Who could? But we feared—we thought you were going to say her skirt."
"It is my opinion that you fear nothing," says Miss Gower, with a withering glance at the fan. "And let me tell you that there are other people,"—with awful emphasis—"besides Mrs. Tyneway who would do well to put a tucker round their——"
"Ankles!" puts in Mrs. Chichester sweetly.
"No; their——"
"What was her dress made of?" breaks in Margaret hurriedly, who is afraid of their going too far with the irascible old lady.
"Goodness knows! She was all black and blue, at all events!"