“Coquets?” says I; “really, aunt, I am at a loss.”
“Barbara, she is flirtish,” pursued my aunt, who, as I have said already, was a dreadful engine when once she was set in motion.
“That means, my dearest aunt,” says I, with a simplicity wonderful to hear, “one who attempts to trifle with the affections of another, does it not?”
At the word affections I blushed divinely. Yes, I know I did, for I was seated opposite a mirror (which I generally am) and noted the coming of the modest roses with an infinity of pride.
“Precisely, Barbara,” says my aunt.
“Then I am sure, dear aunt,” says I, with some enjoyment, “that you are under a misapprehension in this matter. How possibly could I admit a person of that character so near my bosom?”
“But surely,” says my aunt, a very stickler for the mode, “a low-necked gown at supper-time should be de rigeur. The one your Miss Canticle is wearing is decidedly de trop.”
“’Tis not altogether décolleté,” says I, with a reflective air, “but then, you see, dear aunt, her physician says her chest’s so delicate that at informal gatherings or in the country it behoves her to protect it.”
“Dear me,” says my aunt, “I should not have thought it now. She doth not appear a particularly delicate or fragile kind of flower.”
“Appearances are deceptive,” says I, with a solemnity that padded out my wisdom.