overcoat another year to pay the doctor's bill. And now that little fluffy baby is to marry into the peerage! Bless you, how proud your mother would be had she lived—"
"Are you sure, Aunt Mary?"
"Positive." Aunt Mary's eyes filled, and with a show of real, if clumsy affection, she leaned over and kissed her niece. "Come, dear, get up. I've ordered breakfast in the rooms."
Miss Cynthia sat up. And as if banished by that act, the serious little mouse of a girl scampered into oblivion, and in her place appeared a gay young rogue who sees the future lying bright ahead.
"After all," she smiled, "I'm not married—yet." And humming brightly from a current musical comedy—"Not just yet—just yet—just yet—" she stretched forth one slim white arm to throw aside the coverlet. At which point it is best discreetly to withdraw.
Mr. Minot, after a lonesome if abundant breakfast, was at this moment strolling across the hotel courtyard toward yesterday morning's New York papers. As he walked, the pert
