"Ah!" remarked he. "Megrims, has she? Let me see now—the megrims are Père Letellier; yes, Père Dumain is a cold on the chest."
"What do you mean, Philip?" asked Celia, in bewilderment.
"Only my Lady-Mother's style of cipher correspondence, my dear. She gives an occasional séance to her spiritual advisers, on which occasion she tells the world—fibs."
"You do not really mean it?"
"Of course I do."
"But what does she do?"
"In her séance? Confesses her sins—that is, so far as I can judge from my recollection of one such occurrence at which I was present when a small kitten, she regales her spiritual pastor with some very spicy tales of all her friends and acquaintances."
"I am sure you are joking, Philip. But please tell me what it is that she wants me to do? Is it to go to all her assemblies?"
"Precisely, my Grey Sister—and to a few Court balls, and a play or two."
"O dear!" sighed poor Celia. "I never can do that,"