“Besides, Miss Dixon,” I added, “are you not a little premature in offering to be a sister to me?”
“Never mind,” she replied, laughing; “call it housekeeper, if you like.”
“The imputation,” I answered, “is monstrous. I am a respectable bachelor, and never had such a thing. And if I had, she would have appeared before me in a fitting state—not a misfitting one.”
“Then we’d better make it sister after all,” she returned, “and my first duty is to demand what you were doing when I came in.”
I glanced at the half-sorted piles of notes, cards, ancient invitations, mementoes, and the hundred other matters which had doubtless been of more or less importance in their day, and shrugged my shoulders.
“I know,” said Miss Dixon, “it is rather dreadful. Seems like reading some one else’s letters. Let me help you.”
She put out her hand for the nearest packet. I placed my own firmly on hers.
“Miss Dixon,” I said slowly, “who are you that you would plunge thus recklessly into the tied-up part of a now reformed bachelor? That particular bundle is least of all fit for a sister’s perusal.”
“If Caroline neglected her duty,” she retorted, “that is no reason why I should do the same. I want to see them.”
“You had better take these instead,” I returned, pushing towards her a tray of wedding cards.