"Yes," meditated pretty Mrs. Hart; "I suppose it would be invidious to pass her over and ask the other three, but I would so much rather have them."
"Cannot you ask the whole four?" suggested her sister.
"Does it not strike you as being almost too much of a good thing? You see, our space is not unlimited."
"Ask the three eldest," said Bertie Paine decidedly.
"But I do not want her. What use is she? She can sing, certainly, but you cannot keep her singing all the evening; and the rest of the time she neither talks nor flirts. And she is altogether so very unattractive," ended Mrs. Hart, despondently.
"Who is it?" asked the handsomest man in the room, strolling up to the group by the window. "Who is this unfortunate lady? I always feel such sympathy with the unattractive, as you know."
"Naturally," laughed Mrs. Hart. "The individual in question is a Miss Mildmay, a plain person and the eldest of four sisters."
"Mildmay? Who are they? I used to know people of that name, and there were four girls in the family. One of them—her name was Minnie, I remember—promised to grow up very pretty."
"So she is; Minnie is the third. They are certainly your friends, Mr. Ratcliff. They are all pretty but the eldest, and all their names begin with M: Margaret, Miriam, Minnie, and Maud. Absurd, is it not?"
"Somebody had a strong fancy for alliteration. So Miss Mildmay is plain?"