just
looked over my calendar, and I want to see yours. Really, we are so
crowded that we've got to cut something out--we really have." As she
spoke she crossed to Dorothy's slim-legged, satin wood writing desk, and
picked up an engagement book. "You lunch with the Wootherspoons--that's
good. Then I can go to the Caldens for bridge in the afternoon at four.
You won't be back from the matinee and tea at the Van Vaughns' until
after six, and we dine at the Belmans' at eight. That'll do very nicely.
And then, dear, about my dress at Bendel's; I do wish you could find a
minute to see my fitting. I can't tell whether I ought to have that
mauve so near my face, or whether it ought to be pink; and you know that
fitter doesn't care _how_ I look, just so she gets that gown _of_ her
hands, and I _can't_ make up my mind--when I can't see myself at a
distance _from_ myself, and those fitting rooms are _so_ small!"

Dorothy paused in the midst of a bite. "Tante Lydia, you _know_ if she
said 'mauve' you'd want 'pink' and 'mauve' if she said 'pink,' and all
you really need is somebody to argue with; and, besides, they both look
the same at night."

Mrs. Mellows pouted fat pink lips, and looked more than ever an elderly
infant about to burst into tears.

"Dorothy," she sniffed, "I do think you are the most trying child! I
only wish to look well for _your_ sake. I have no vanity--why should I
have? It's only my desire to be presentable on your account." Her blue
orbs suffused with tears.

Dorothy leaped from the divan, to the imminent danger of the breakfast
tray. "Now, Aunt Lydia, don't be foolish. I didn't mean to hurt your
feelings, and, besides, you know you are the really, truly belle of the
ball. Why, you bad thing! Where were you all last evening? Didn't I have
to go after you--and into the conservatory, at that! And what did I
find, pray--you and a beautiful white-haired beau, with a goatee! And
now you say you are _only_ dressing for _me_--Oh, fie!--oh, fie!--oh,
fie!" She kissed her aunt on a moist blue eye, and bounced back to her
seat.

The chaperon was mollified and flattered. "But, my dear," she returned
to the charge, "you know mauve is so unbecoming; if one should become a
trifle pale--"

Dorothy snipped a bit of toast in her aunt's direction. "But, why, my
dear Lydia," she teased, "should one ever be pale? There are first aids
to beauty, you know--and a very _nice_ rouge can be had--"

"Dorothy, how can you!" e