"We are having quite a dissertation on this most pleasant of civilised institutions," said Sir Watkins, merrily, as he flicked away a cobweb here and there with his silver-mounted tandem whip; "have you nothing to say on the subject, Miss Lloyd--no apt quotation?"
"None," replied Winifred, dreamily, while twirling a spray of ivy round her white and tapered fingers.
"None--after all your reading?"
"Save perhaps that a kiss one may deem valueless and but a jest may be full of tender significance to another."
"You look quite distraite, Winny, dear, as you make this romantic admission," said one of her friends.
"Do I--or did I?" she asked, colouring.
"Yes. Of what or of whom were you thinking?"
"Such a deuced odd theme you have all got upon!" said Sir Watkins, perceiving how Winifred's colour had deepened at her own thoughts.
"But how funny--how delightful!" exclaimed the girls, laughing together; while Dora added, with something like a mock sigh, as she held up a crape rose,
"When last I wore this rose in my hair, I danced with little Mr. Clavell--and he is spending his Christmas before Sebastopol! Poor dear fellow--poor Tom Clavell!"