"I wanted mamma to write, but she would come," said Dora, in her
hearty voice. I murmured polite mendacities and offered chairs.
Dora preferred to stand and gaze about her with feminine
curiosity. Women always seem to sniff for Bluebeardism in a
bachelor's apartment.
"Why, what two beautiful rooms you have. And the books! There
isn't an inch of wall-space!"
She went on a voyage of discovery round the shelves while my aunt
explained the object of their visit. Somebody, I forget who, had
lent them a yacht. They were making up a party for a summer
cruise in Norwegian fiords. The Thingummies and the So and So's
and Lord This and Miss That had promised to come, but they were
sadly in need of a man to play host--I was to fancy three lone
women at the mercy of the skipper. I did, and I didn't envy the
skipper. What more natural, gushed my aunt, than that they
should turn to me, the head of the house, in their difficulty?
"I am afraid, my dear aunt," said I, "that my acquaintance with
skipper-terrorising hosts is nil.
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