"I expect most girls do! He's the great parti about here."
"Mother, really!" cried Lydia. "He's just a pleasant youth—not at all clever. And oh, how badly he plays bridge!"
"That doesn't matter. Mrs. Deacon says you got on with him, splendidly."
"I chaffed him a good deal. He really plays worse than I do—if you can believe it."
"They like being chaffed"—said Mrs. Penfold pensively—"if a girl does it well."
"I don't care, darling, whether they like it or not. It amuses me, and so
I do it."
"But you mustn't let them think they're being laughed at. If you do that, Lydia, you'll be an old maid. Oh, Lydia!"—the speaker sighed like a furnace—"I do wish you saw more young men!"
"Well, I saw another one—much handsomer than Lord Tatham—this afternoon," laughed Lydia.
Mrs. Penfold eagerly inquired. The story was told, and Mrs. Penfold, as easily lured by a new subject as a child by a new doll, fell into many speculations as to who the youth could have been, and where he was going. Lydia soon ceased to listen. But when the coverlet slipped away she did not fail to replace it tenderly over her mother's feet, and every now and then her fingers gave a caressing touch to the delicate hand of which Mrs. Penfold was so proud. It was not difficult to see that of the two the girl was really the mother, in spirit; the maturer, protecting soul.
Presently she roused herself to ask: