It appeared indeed that she did.
Sitting in Lily's room, her large and shapely legs crossed beneath the astonishingly brief serge skirt that had temporarily replaced the blue knickerbockers of Genazzano, Miss Stellenthorpe elegantly smoked a number of cigarettes, and eyed the while, with critical penetration, Miss Doris Dickenson.
"You're like me, Miss Stellenthorpe. I'm afraid I smoke like a chimney—you know, my nerves sort of want it, somehow. I always inhale, too. Everyone always says I smoke too much."
"And who is 'everyone'?" negligently enquired Miss Stellenthorpe.
Doris stared at her.
"Everyone is everyone, I suppose," she said shortly.
Aunt Clo smiled with irrepressible superiority, turning to her niece.
"But how typical, is it not, of young England? The art of definition: everyone is everyone, she supposes! Ha, ha!"
"One talks carelessly, sometimes," Lily said, strongly inclined to laugh.
"But not at all," graciously exclaimed her aunt; "if by 'one' you allude to yourself, carina, I can assure you that it is not so. Your vocabulary, your originality, the extent of your reading, all combine to render your conversation stimulating. How I revel in the clash of wits! My niece and I between us must teach you the use of words, my little Dickenson."