Father—he was Captain Jones then—was sitting all alone one evening in the room which was designated by courtesy the study, though, as far as literature is concerned, it contained little else save a few magazines, the newspapers, and—father’s pipe rack. Well, father was enjoying a mild cigar by the open window—for it was spring, and the birds were singing in every bush—when there entered to him—Aunt Serapheema, who began to cough.
Father put his cigar hastily down on the outside sill of the window, with a little sigh, for it was one of the Colonel’s—Colonel McReady’s—best, and only newly lit.
He hastened to place the high-backed armchair for the lady. It was like herself, this chair—straight, tall, dark, and prim.
“The smoke, I suppose, would have annoyed you?”
“It would have, Harold.”
“And the open window?”
“That we can do with.”
“Ahem!” continued my aunt, smoothing the long black silken mits she always wore on her hands and arms. “Ahem!”
“Yes, sister,” said my father.
“Yes, aunt, if you please. Remember that in future, Harold; and it will be as well if, instead of calling Dora, your wife, by the ridiculous name of Dot, you now address her as ‘mamma’ or ‘ma.’”