"NAN, who do you think I saw in Regent Street?" exclaimed my sister Dora, more eagerly than grammatically as she came into the little back garden—a typical London "garden"—consisting of a hawthorn, a rockery, and a grass-plot hardly bigger than a tablecloth, where mother, Peggy, and I were sitting to enjoy the cool of the evening. Dora had been with a party of her school-fellows under the care of their form-mistress to visit a certain interesting exhibition at the West End.
"I am sure I do not know, and I am not going to guess," I responded lazily, "so you may as well tell me at once."
"Well, then, it was Cousin Agneta," Dora said.
"You don't mean it?" I said, sitting up with sudden briskness.
"But I do," said Dora. "I tell you I saw her!"
"Was she alone?" I asked.
"No, she was walking with a gentleman—and such a masher too."
"Dora," mother broke in, "I wish you would not use those horrid slang expressions!"
"Oh, mother, what harm is there in masher? Would you rather I said swell?"
"No, I do not like either word," mother replied. "Cannot you simply say that he was a smart-looking man! Did you speak to your cousin?"