"I was in bed at three."
"Down next morning, fresh as a—a—"
"Rose," she supplied tritely.
"—cake o' soap," concluded her uncle. "Now, as for you and Will Douglas, as between Will's forty—"
"Marked down from forty-five," she interjected.
"And your twenty-two—"
"Looking like thirty-something."
"Never mind," said Dr. Elliot in martyred tones. "I don't want to finish any sentence. Why should I? Got a niece to do it for me."
"Nobody wants you to finish that one. You're a matchmaking old maid," declared Esmé, wrinkling her delicate nose at him, "and if you're ever put up for our sewing-circle I shall blackball you. Gossip!"
"Oh, if I wanted to gossip, I'd begin to hint about the name of Surtaine."