"It is very annoying," said she, decisively.
"Sending you to me?" said Mr. Erwyn, a magnitude of reproach in his voice.
"That," said Miss Allonby, "I can pardon—and easily. But I dislike all mysteries, and being termed a child, and being—"
"Yes?" said Mr. Erwyn.
"—and being powdered on the nose," said Miss Allonby, with firmness. She went to the mirror, and, standing on the tips of her toes, peered anxiously into its depths. She rubbed her nose, as if in disapproval, and frowned, perhaps involuntarily pursing up her lips,—which Mr. Erwyn intently regarded, and then wandered to the extreme end of the apartment, where he evinced a sudden interest in bric-à-brac.
"Is there any powder on my nose?" said Miss Allonby.
"I fail to perceive any," said Mr. Erwyn.
"Come closer," said she.
"I dare not," said he.
Miss Allonby wheeled about. "Fie!" she cried; "one who has served against the French, [Footnote: This was not absolutely so. Mr. Erwyn had, however, in an outburst of patriotism, embarked, as a sort of cabin passenger, with his friend Sir John Morris, and possessed in consequence some claim to share such honor as was won by the glorious fiasco of Dungeness.] and afraid of powder!"