'This is excessively bad form!' she exclaimed, reclining in a blue satin easy-chair, with one slim white hand caressing the smooth, round head of her goggle-eyed pug dog. 'Send her here.'
'So you have a military correspondent, Miss Carlyon, I understand?' said she, when the culprit appeared.
'Yes, my Lady Fettercairn,' replied Dulcie, colouring painfully.
'Is he a relation?'
'No; you saw, and—and were struck with his likeness in my locket,' faltered poor Dulcie.
'Well—I do not approve, while under my roof, of your corresponding with private soldiers, or sergeants, and so forth!'
'But my letter is from an officer of the 24th Regiment,' said Dulcie, with a little pardonable pride.
'So much the worse perhaps—an officer?'
'Lieutenant Florian MacIan.'
'Indeed,' said Lady Fettercairn, languidly fanning herself; 'I remember the name now—he was so called after the girl MacIan,' she added half to herself. 'MacIan! what a name! It is quite a calamity. I do not care to have you corresponding with these people—while here,' she added vaguely.