"Miss Flora?" echoed her Father.
"Why, at the Rattle-Pane House, you know!" rallied Flame. "Don't you remember that I called there this afternoon? It—it looked rather lonely there.—I—think I could fix it."
"Honk-honk-honk!" implored the automobile.
"But who is this Miss Flora?" cried her Mother. "I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! How do we know she's respectable?"
"Oh, my dear," deprecated Flame's Father. "Just as though the owners of the Rattle-Pane House would rent it to any one who wasn't respectable!"
"Oh, she's very respectable," insisted Flame. "Of a lineage so distinguished—"
"How old might this paragon be?" queried her Father.
"Old?" puzzled Flame. To her startled mind two answers only presented themselves.... Should she say "Oh, she's only just weaned," or "Well,—she was invented about 1406?" Between these two dilemmas a single compromise suggested itself. "She's awfully wrinkled," said Flame; "that is—her face is. All wizened up, I mean."
"Oh, then of course she must be respectable," twinkled Flame's Father.
"And is related in some way," persisted Flame, "to Edward the 2nd—Duke of York."