I took her hand and in my noblest manner, like the exiled vicomte
in costume drama, bent over it and kissed her finger-tips.
"I thank you, my dear aunt, for your generous faith in my
integrity," I said, "and I assure you your confidence is well
founded."
A loud, gay laugh from the other room interrupted me.
"Are you two rehearsing private theatricals?" cried Dora. As I
was attired in a remarkably old college blazer and a pair of
yellow Moorish slippers bought a couple of years ago in Tangier,
and as my hair was straight on end, owing to a habit of passing
my fingers through it while I work, my attitude perhaps did not
strike a spectator as being so noble as I had imagined. I took
advantage of the anti-climax, however, to bring my aunt from the
balcony to the centre of the room, where Dora joined us.
"Well, has mother prevailed?"
"My dear Dora," said I, politely, "how can you imagine it could
possibly be a question of persuasion?"
"That might be taken two ways," said Dora. "Like Palmerston's
'Dear Sir, I'll lose no time in reading your book.
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