"Do you think he wouldn't like it?"
"Yes."
"Well, it would become him. How old do you suppose he is, Imogene? Seventy-five?"
"What an idea!" cried the girl fiercely. "He's forty-one."
"I didn't know they had those little jiggering lines at the corners of their eyes so quick. But forty-one is pretty old, isn't it? Is Mr. Waters—"
"Effie," said her mother's voice at the door behind her, "will you ring for Giovanni, and tell him to bring me a cup of coffee in here?" She spoke from the portière of the salotto.
"Yes, mamma. I'll bring it to you myself."
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Bowen called from within.
The little girl softly pressed her hands together. "I hope she'll let me stay up! I feel so excited, and I hate to lie and think so long before I get to sleep. Couldn't you just hint a little to her that I might stay up? It's Sunday night."
"I can't, Effie," said Imogene. "I oughtn't to interfere with any of your mother's rules."