"Yes, indeed. There's something very attractive about electric lights," returned her niece, gravely.
Mrs. Thayer looked slightly puzzled and changed the subject.
"Mr. Lighton is really in many ways a very nice young man," she ventured, timidly. "And not a bit worse than lots of others."
"Not a bit!" assented the other. Her voice was still cheerful but her face had clouded a little. "The trouble is," she went on, rather absently, after a moment's pause, "the trouble is, he's worse-looking. Vice, pure and simple, one might tolerate; but vice, in conjunction with a vermilion nose"—
"Lynn!" interrupted her aunt with righteous indignation. "Mr. Lighton is as the Lord made him."
"The Lord! Brandy and soda!"
Mrs. Thayer had her answer ready in her pocket; she drew it out and deposited three more tears upon its snowy surface. Lynn hesitated; she had a truly masculine aversion to tears, an aversion which had cost her many a domestic battle.
"Please don't cry, Aunt Lucy," she burst forth at length. "I don't see why you are so very anxious to get me married. I thought you liked having me in the house. If you don't"—
"Of course I like having you," said the older woman, reproachfully. "But I must confess that it makes me feel dreadfully to think of having you, always—that is, I mean that it makes me feel dreadfully to see you throw away such good chances. For you know, Lynn, you are not in the least pretty."
"Dear Aunt Lucy, you have told me that so often," returned her niece, patiently. "But I cannot for the life of me see why the fact of my not possessing a Greek profile should make me want to marry Mr. Lighton."