THE THREE NIECES
The Von Taers did not affect motor cars. In some circles the carriage
and pair is still considered the more aristocratic mode of conveyance.
Established customs do not readily give way to fads and freaks.
Consulting her memoranda as she rode along; in her handsome, tastefully
appointed equipage, Diana found that Louise Merrick, one of the three
girls she had set out to discover, was the nearest on her route.
Presently she rang the bell at the Merrick residence, an eminently
respectable dwelling; in a desirable neighborhood.
Diana could not resist a sigh of relief as her observant glance noted
this detail. A dignified butler ushered her into a reception room and
departed with her card.
It was now that the visitor's nose took an upward tendency as she
critically examined her surroundings. The furnishings were abominable, a
mixture of distressingly new articles with those evidently procured
from dealers in "antiquities." Money had been lavished here, but good
taste was absent. To understand this--for Miss Von Taer gauged the
condition truly--it is necessary to know something of Mrs. Martha
Merrick.
This lady, the relict of John Merrick's only brother, was endowed with a
mediocre mind and a towering ambition. When left a widow with an only
daughter she had schemed and contrived in endless ways to maintain an
appearance of competency on a meager income. Finally she divided her
capital, derived from her husband's life insurance, into three equal
parts, which she determined to squander in three years in an attempt to
hoodwink the world with the belief that she was wealthy. Before the
three years were ended her daughter Louise would be twenty, and by that
time she must have secured a rich _parti_ and been safely married. In
return for this "sacrifice" the girl was to see that her mother was made
comfortable thereafter.
This worldly and foolish design was confided to Louise when she was only
seventeen, and her unformed mind easily absorbed her mother's silly
ambition. It was a pity, for Louise Merrick possessed a nature sweet
and lovable, as well as instinctively refined--a nature derived from her
dead father and with little true sympathy with Mrs. Merrick's
unscrupulous schemes. But at that age a girl is easily influenced, so it
is little wonder that under such tuition Louise became calculating, sly
and deceitful, to a most deplorable degree.
Such acquired traits bade fair in the end to defeat Mrs. Merrick's
carefully planned _coup_, for the daughter had a premature love affair
with a youth outside the pale of eligibility. Louise ignored the fact
that he had been disinherited by his father, and in her reckless
infatuation would have sacrificed her mother without thought or remorse.
The dreadful finale had only been averted by the advent of Uncle John
Merrick, who had changed the life plans of the widow and her heedless
daughter and promptly saved the situation.
John Merrick did not like his sister-in-law, but he was charmed by his
lovely niece and took her at once to his affectionate old heart. He saw
the faults of Louise clearly, but also appreciated her sweeter
qualities. Under his skillful guidance she soon redeemed herself and
regained control of her better nature. The girl was not yet perfect, by
any means; she was to an extent artificial and secretive, and her
thoughtless flirtations were far from wise; but her two cousins and her
uncle had come to know and understand her good points. They not only
bore patiently with her volatile nature but strove to influence her to
demonstrate her inherent good qualities.
In one way her mother's calculating training had been most effective.
Louise was not only a dainty, lovely maid to the eye, but her manners
were gracious and winning and she had that admirable self-possession
which quickly endears one even to casual acquaintances. She did not
impress more intimate friends as being wholly sincere, yet there was
nothing in her acts, since that one escapade referred to, that merited
severe disapproval.
Of course the brilliant idea of foisting her precious daughter upon the
"select" society of the metropolis was original with Mrs. Merrick.
Louise was well content with things as they were; but not so the
mother. The rise from poverty to affluence, the removal of all cares and
burdens from her mind, had merely fostered still greater ambitions.
Uncle John's generosity had endowed each of his three nieces with an
ample fortune. "I want 'em to enjoy the good things of life while
they're at an age to enjoy 'em," he said; "for the older one gets the
fewer things are found to be enjoyable. That's my experience, anyhow."
He also told the girls frankly that they were to inherit
jointly--although not equally--his entire fortune. Yet even this glowing
prospect did not satisfy Mrs. Merrick. Since all her plans for Louise,
from the very beginning, had been founded on personal selfishness, she
now proposed to have her daughter gain admission to recognized
fashionable society in order that she might herself bask in the
reflection of the glory so obtained and take her place with the proud
matrons who formed the keystone of such society. After carefully
considering ways and means to gain her object she had finally conceived
the idea of utilizing Mr. Merrick. She well knew Uncle John would not
consider one niece to the exclusion of the others, and had therefore
used his influence to get all three girls properly "introduced."
Therefore her delight and excitement were intense when the butler
brought up Diana's card and she realized that "the perfectly swell Miss
Von Taer" was seated in her reception room. She rushed to Louise, who,
wholly innocent of any knowledge of the intrigue which had led to this
climax, opened her blue eyes in astonishment and said with a gasp:
"Oh, mother! what shall I do?"
"Do? Why, go down and make yourself agreeable, of course. It's your
chance, my dear, your great chance in life! Go--go! Don't, for heaven's
sake, keep her waiting."
Louise went down. In her most affable and gracious way she approached
the visitor and said:
"It is very nice of you to call upon me. I am _so_ glad to meet Miss Von
Taer." Diana, passing conversational nothings with the young girl, was
pleased by her appearance and self-possession. This aspirant for social
honors was fresh, fair and attractive, with a flow of small talk at her
tongue's end.
"Really," thought the fastidious visitor, "this one, at least, will do
me no discredit. If she is a fair sample of the others we shall get
along very nicely In this enterprise."
To Louise she said, before going:
"I'm to have an evening, the nineteenth. Will you assist me to receive?
Now that we are acquainted I wish to see more of you, my dear, and I
predict we shall get along famously together."
The girl's head swam. Help Miss Von Taer to receive! Such an honor had
been undreamed of an hour ago. But she held her natural agitation under
good control and only a round red spot Upon each cheek betrayed her
inward excitement as she prettily accepted the invitation. Beneath their
drooping lashes Diana's sagacious eyes read the thoughts of the girl
quite accurately. Miss Von Taer enjoyed disconcerting anyone in any way,
and Louise was so simple and unsophisticated that she promised to afford
considerable amusement in the future.
By the time Diana had finished her brief call this singular creature had
taken the measure of Louise Merrick in every detail, including her
assumption of lightness and her various frivolities. She understood that
in the girl were capabilities for good or for evil, as she might be led
by a stronger will. And, musingly, Diana wondered who would lead her.
As for Louise, she was enraptured by her distinguished visitor's
condescension and patronage, and her heart bounded at the thought of
being admitted to the envied social coterie in which Diana Von Taer
shone a bright, particular star.
The second name in the list of John Merrick's nieces was that of
Elizabeth De Graf. She lived at a good private hotel located in an
exclusive residence district.
It was true that Elizabeth--or "Beth," as she was more familiarly
called--was not a permanent guest at this hotel. When in New York she
was accustomed to live with one or the other of her cousins, who
welcomed her eagerly. But just now her mother had journeyed from the old
Ohio home to visit Beth, and the girl had no intention of inflicting
her parent upon the other girls. Therefore she had taken rooms at the
hotel temporarily, and the plan suited her mother excellently. For one
thing, Mrs. De Graf could go home and tell her Cloverton gossips that
she had stopped at the most "fashionable" hotel in New York; a second
point was that she loved to feast with epicurean avidity upon the
products of a clever _chef_, being one of those women who live to eat,
rather than eat to live.
Mrs. De Graf was John Merrick's only surviving sister, but she differed
as widely from the simple, kindly man in disposition as did her
ingenious daughter from her in mental attainments. The father, Professor
De Graf, was supposed to be a "musical genius." Before Beth came into
her money, through Uncle John, the Professor taught the piano and
singing; now, however, the daughter allowed her parents a liberal
income, and the self-engrossed musician devoted himself to composing
oratorios and concertas which no one but himself would ever play. To
be quite frank, the girl cared little for her gross and selfish parents,
and they in turn cared little for her beyond the value she afforded them
in the way of dollars and cents. So she had not lived at home, where
constant quarrels and bickerings nearly drove her frantic, since Uncle
John had adopted her. In catering to this present whim of her mother,
who longed to spend a few luxurious weeks in New York, Beth sacrificed
more than might be imagined by one unacquainted with her sad family
history.
Whimsical Major Doyle often called Uncle John's nieces "the Three
Graces"; but Beth was by odds the beauty of them all. Splendid brown
eyes, added to an exquisite complexion, almost faultless features and a
superb carriage, rendered this fair young girl distinguished in any
throng. Fortunately she was as yet quite unspoiled, being saved from
vanity by a morbid consciousness of her inborn failings and a sincere
loathing for the moral weakness that prevented her from correcting those
faults. Judging Beth by the common standard of girls of her age, both
failings and faults were more imaginary than real; yet it was her
characteristic to suspect and despise in herself such weaknesses as
others would condone, or at least regard leniently. For here was a girl
true and staunch, incapable of intrigue or deceit, frank and outspoken,
all these qualities having been proven more than once. Everyone loved
Beth De Graf save herself, and at this stage of her development the
influence of her cousins and of Uncle John had conspired to make the
supersensitive girl more tolerant of herself and less morbid than
formerly.
I think Beth knew of Diana Von Taer, for the latter's portrait
frequently graced the society columns of the New York press and at times
the three nieces, in confidential mood, would canvass Diana and her
social exploits as they did the acts of other famous semi-public
personages. But the girl had never dreamed of meeting such a celebrity,
and Miss Von Taer's card filled her with curious wonder as to the errand
that had brought her.
The De Grafs lived _en suite_ at the hotel, for Beth had determined to
surround her Sybaritic mother with all attainable luxury, since the
child frequently reproached herself with feeling a distinct repulsion
for the poor woman. So to-day Diana was ushered into a pretty parlor
where Beth stood calmly awaiting her.
The two regarded one another in silence a moment, Miss De Graf's frank
eyes covering the other with a comprehensive sweep while Miss Von Taer's
narrowed gaze, profoundly observant, studied the beautiful girl before
her with that impenetrable, half-hidden gleam that precluded any
solution.
"Miss Von Taer, I believe," said Beth, quietly glancing at the card she
held. "Will you be seated?"
Diana sank gracefully into a chair. The sinuous motion attracted Beth's
attention and gave her a slight shiver.
"I am so glad to meet you, my dear," began the visitor, in soft, purring
accents. "I have long promised myself the pleasure of a call, and in
spite of many procrastinations at last have accomplished my ambition."
Beth resented the affectation of this prelude, and slightly frowned.
Diana was watching; she always watched. "Why should you wish to call
upon me?" was the frank demand. "Do not think me rude, please; but I am
scarcely in a position to become a desirable acquaintance of Miss Von
Taer." The tone was a trifle bitter, and Diana noted it. A subtile
antagonism seemed springing up between them and the more experienced
girl scented in this danger to her plans. She must handle this young
lady more cautiously than she had Louise Merrick.
"Your position is unimpeachable, my dear," was the sweet-toned response.
"You are John Merrick's niece."
Beth was really angry now. She scowled, and it spoiled her beauty. Diana
took warning and began to think quickly.
"I referred to my social position, Miss Von Taer. Our family is honest
enough, thank God; but it has never been accepted in what is termed
select society."
Diana laughed; a quiet, rippling laugh as icy as a brook in November,
but as near gaiety as she could at the moment accomplish. When she
laughed this way her eyes nearly closed and became inscrutable. Beth
had a feeling of repulsion for her caller, but strove to shake it off.
Miss Von Taer was nothing to her; could be nothing to her.
"Your uncle is a very wealthy man," said Diana, with easy composure. "He
has made you an heiress, placing you in a class much sought after in
these mercenary days. But aside from that, my dear, your personal
accomplishments have not escaped notice, and gossip declares you to be a
very fascinating young woman, as well as beautiful and good. I do not
imagine society claims to be of divine origin, but were it so no one is
more qualified to grace it."
The blandishments of this speech had less effect upon Beth than the
evident desire to please. She began to feel she had been ungracious, and
straightway adopted a more cordial tone.
"I am sure you mean well, Miss Von Taer," she hastened to say, "and I
assure you I am not ungrateful. But it occurred to me we could have
nothing in common." "Oh, my dear! You wrong us both."
"Do you know my uncle?" enquired Beth.
"He is the friend of my father, Mr. Hedrik Von Taer. Our family owes Mr.
John Merrick much consideration. Therefore I decided to seek pleasure in
the acquaintance of his nieces."
The words and tone seemed alike candid. Beth began to relent. She sat
down for the first time, taking a chair opposite Diana.
"You see," she said, artlessly, "I have no personal inclination for
society, which is doubtless so large a part of your own amusement. It
seems to me artificial and insipid."
"Those who view from a distance the husk of a cocoanut, have little idea
of the milk within," declared Diana, softly.
"True," answered Beth. "But I've cracked cocoanuts, and sometimes found
the milk sour and tainted."
"The difference you observe in cocoanuts is to be found in the various
grades of society. These are not all insipid and artificial, I assure
you."
"They may be worse," remarked Beth. "I've heard strange tales of your
orgies." Diana was really amused. This girl was proving more
interesting than the first niece she had interviewed. Unaccustomed to
seeking acquaintances outside her own exclusive circle, and under such
circumstances, these meetings were to her in the nature of an adventure.
A creature of powerful likes and dislikes, she already hated Beth most
heartily; but for that very reason she insisted on cultivating her
further acquaintance.
"You must not judge society by the mad pranks of a few of its members,"
she responded, in her most agreeable manner. "If we are not to set an
example in decorum to the rest of the world we are surely unfitted to
occupy the high place accorded us. But you must see and decide for
yourself."
"I? No, indeed!"
"Ah, do not decide hastily, my dear. Let me become your sponsor for a
short time, until you really discover what society is like. Then you may
act upon more mature judgment."
"I do not understand you, Miss Von Taer."
"Then I will be more explicit. I am to receive a few friends at my home
on the evening of the nineteenth; will you be my guest?" Beth was
puzzled how to answer. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps Uncle
John would like her to be courteous to his friend's daughter, and that
argument decided her. She accepted the invitation.
"I want you to receive with me," continued Diana, rising. "In that way I
shall be able to introduce you to my friends."
Beth wondered at this condescension, but consented to receive. She was
annoyed to think how completely she had surrendered to the will of Miss
Von Taer, for whom she had conceived the same aversion she had for a
snake. She estimated Diana, society belle though she was, to be sly,
calculating and deceitful. Worse than all, she was decidedly clever, and
therefore dangerous. Nothing good could come of an acquaintance with
her, Beth was sure; yet she had pledged herself to meet her and her
friends the nineteenth, lit a formal society function. How much Beth De
Graf misjudged Diana Von Taer the future will determine. The interview
had tired Diana. As she reentered her carriage she was undecided whether
to go home or hunt up the third niece. But Willing Square was not five
minutes' drive from here, so she ordered the coachman to proceed there.
"I am positively out of my element in this affair," she told herself,
"for it is more difficult to cultivate these inexperienced girls than I
had thought. They are not exactly impossible, as I at first feared, but
they are so wholly unconventional as to be somewhat embarrassing as
_protégées_. Analyzing the two I have met--the majority--one strikes me
as being transparently affected and the other a stubborn, attractive
fool. They are equally untrained in diplomacy and unable to cover their
real feelings. Here am I, practically dragging them into the limelight,
when it would be far better for themselves--perhaps for me--that they
remained in oblivion. Ah, well: I called it an adventure: let me hope
some tangible plot will develop to compensate me for my trouble. Life
seems deadly dull; I need excitement. Is it to be furnished by John
Merrick's nieces, I wonder?" Willing Square is a new district, crowded
with fashionable apartment houses. That is, they are called fashionable
by their builders and owners and accepted as such by their would-be
fashionable occupants. Diana knew at least two good families resident in
Willing Square, and though she smiled grimly at the rows of
"oppressively new and vulgar" buildings, she still was not ashamed to
have her equipage seen waiting there.
Number 3708 Willing Square is a very substantial and cozy appearing
apartment building owned in fee by Miss Patricia Doyle. Diana was
unaware of this fact, but rang the Doyle bell and ascended to the second
floor.
A maid received her with the announcement that Miss Doyle had "just
stepped out," but was somewhere in the building. Would the visitor care
to wait a few minutes?
Yes; Diana decided she would wait. She took a seat in the snug front
parlor and from her position noted the series of rooms that opened one
into another throughout the suite, all richly but tastefully furnished
in homely, unassuming manner. "This is better," she mused. "There is
no attempt at foolish display in this establishment, at any rate. I hope
to find Miss Doyle a sensible, refined person. The name is Irish."
A door slammed somewhere down the line of rooms and a high-pitched voice
cried in excited tones:
"I've found a baby! Hi, there, Nunkie, dear--I've found a baby!"
Thereupon came the sound of a chair being pushed back as a man's voice
answered in equal glee:
"Why, Patsy, Patsy! it's the little rogue from upstairs. Here, Bobby;
come to your own old Uncle!"
"He won't. He belongs to me; don't you, Bobby darlin'?"
A babyish voice babbled merrily, but the sounds were all "goos" and
"ahs" without any resemblance to words. Bobby may have imagined he was
talking, but he was not very intelligible.
"See here, Patsy Doyle; you gimme that baby." cried the man, pleadingly.
"I found him myself, and he's mine. I've dragged him here all the way
from his home upstairs, an' don't you dare lay a finger on him. Uncle
John!"
"Fair play, Patsy! Bobby's my chum, and--"
"Well, I'll let you have half of him, Nunkie. Down on your hands and
knees, sir, and be a horse. That's it--Now, Bobby, straddle Uncle John
and drive him by his necktie--here it is. S-t-e-a-d-y, Uncle; and
neigh--neigh like a horse!"
"How does a horse neigh, Patsy?" asked a muffled voice, choking and
chuckling at the same time.
"'Nee, hee-hee--hee; hee!'"
Uncle John tried to neigh, and made a sorry mess of it, although Bobby
shrieked with delight.
Then came a sudden hush. Diana caught the maid's voice, perhaps
announcing the presence of a visitor, for Patsy cried in subdued
accents:
"Goodness me, Mary! why didn't you say so? Listen, Uncle John--"
"Leggo that ear, Bobby--leggo!"
"--You watch the baby, Uncle John, and don't let anything happen to
him. I've got a caller."
Diana smiled, a bit scornfully, and then composed her features as a
young girl bustled into the room and came toward her with frank
cordiality indicated in the wide smile and out-stretched hand.
"Pardon my keeping you waiting," said Patsy, dropping into a chair
opposite her visitor, "Uncle John and I were romping with the baby from
upstarts--Bobby's such a dear! I didn't quite catch the name Mary gave
me and forgot to look at your card."
"I am Miss Von Taer."
"Not Diana Von Taer, the swell society girl?" cried Patsy eagerly.
Diana couldn't remember when she had been so completely nonplused
before. After an involuntary gasp she answered quietly:
"I am Diana Von Taer."
"Well, I'm glad to meet you, just the same," said Patsy, cheerfully. "We
outsiders are liable to look on society folk as we would on a cage of
monkeys--because we're so very ignorant, you know, and the bars are
really between us." This frank disdain verged on rudeness, although
the girl had no intention of being rude. Diana was annoyed in spite of
her desire to be tolerant.
"Perhaps the bars are imaginary," she rejoined, carelessly, "and it may
be you've been looking at the side-show and not at the entertainment in
the main tent. Will you admit that possibility, Miss Doyle?"
Patsy laughed gleefully.
"I think you have me there, Miss Von Taer. And what do _I_ know about
society? Just nothing at all. It's out of my line entirely."
"Perhaps it is," was the slow response. "Society appeals to only those
whose tastes seem to require it."
"And aren't we drawing distinctions?" enquired Miss Doyle. "Society at
large is the main evidence of civilization, and all decent folk are
members of it."
"Isn't that communism?" asked Diana.
"Perhaps so. It's society at large. But certain classes have leagued
together and excluded themselves from their fellows, admitting only
those of their own ilk. The people didn't put them on their
pedestals--they put themselves there. Yet the people bow down and
worship these social gods and seem glad to have them. The newspapers
print their pictures and the color of their gowns and how they do their
hair and what they eat and what they do, and the poor washwomen and
shop-girls and their like read these accounts more religiously than they
do their bibles. My maid Mary's a good girl, but she grabs the society
sheet of the Sunday paper and reads it from top to bottom. I never look
at it myself."
Diana's cheeks were burning. She naturally resented such ridicule,
having been born to regard social distinction with awe and reverence.
Inwardly resolving to make Miss Patricia Doyle regret the speech she hid
all annoyance under her admirable self-control and answered with smooth
complacency:
"Your estimate of society, my dear Miss Doyle, is superficial."
"Don't I know it, then?" exclaimed Patsy. "Culture and breeding,
similarity of taste and intellectual pursuits will always attract
certain people and band them together in those cliques which are called
'social sets,' They are not secret societies; they have no rules of
exclusion; congenial minds are ever welcome to their ranks. This is a
natural coalition, in no way artificial. Can you not appreciate that,
Miss Doyle?"
"Yes, indeed," admitted Patsy, promptly. "You're quite right, and I'm
just one of those stupid creatures who criticise the sun because there's
a cloud before it. Probably there are all grades of society, because
there are all grades of people."
"I thought you would agree with me when you understood," murmured Diana,
and her expression was so smug and satisfied that Patsy was seized with
an irresistible spirit of mischief.
"And haven't I seen your own pictures in the Sunday papers?" she asked.
"Perhaps; if you robbed your maid of her pleasure."
"And very pretty pictures they were, too. They showed culture and
breeding all right, and the latest style in gowns. Of course those
intellectual high-brows in your set didn't need an introduction to you;
you were advertised as an example of ultra-fashionable perfection, to
spur the ambition of those lower down in the social scale. Perhaps it's
a good thing."
"Are you trying to annoy me?" demanded Diana, her eyes glaring under
their curling lashes.
"Dear me--dear me!" cried Patsy, distressed, "see how saucy and impudent
I've been--and I didn't mean a bit of it! Won't you forgive me, please,
Miss Von Taer? There! we'll begin all over again, and I'll be on my good
behavior. I'm so very ignorant, you know!"
Diana smiled at this; it would be folly to show resentment to such a
childish creature.
"Unfortunately," she said, "I have been unable to escape the vulgar
publicity thrust upon me by the newspapers. The reporters are preying
vultures, rapacious for sensation, and have small respect for anyone. I
am sure we discourage them as much as we can. I used to weep with
mortification when I found myself 'written up'; now, however, I have
learned to bear such trials with fortitude--if not with resignation."
"Forgive me!" said Patsy, contritely. "Somehow I've had a false idea of
these things. If I knew you better, Miss Von Taer, you'd soon convert me
to be an admirer of society."
"I'd like to do that, Miss Doyle, for you interest me. Will you return
my call?"
"Indeed I will," promised the girl, readily. "I'm flattered that you
called on me at all, Miss Von Taer, for you might easily have amused
yourself better. You must be very busy, with all the demands society
makes on one. When shall I come? Make it some off time, when we won't be
disturbed."
Diana smiled at her eagerness. How nescient the poor little thing was!
"Your cousins, Miss Merrick and Miss De Graf, have consented to receive
with me on the evening of the nineteenth. Will you not join us?"
"Louise and Beth!" cried Patsy, astounded.
"Isn't it nice of them? And may I count upon you, also?"
Patsy smiled dubiously into the other's face.
"Let me out of it!" she said. "Can't you see I'm no butterfly?"
Diana saw many things, having taken a shrewd account of the girl long
before this. Miss Patricia Doyle was short and plump, with a round,
merry face covered with freckles, hair indisputably red and a
_retroussé_ nose. Also she possessed a pair of wonderful blue eyes--eyes
that danced and scintillated with joyous good humor--eyes so captivating
that few ever looked beyond them or noted the plain face they
glorified. But the critic admitted that the face was charmingly
expressive, the sweet and sensitive mouth always in sympathy with the
twinkling, candid eyes. Life and energy radiated from her small person,
which Miss Von Taer grudgingly conceded to possess unusual fascination.
Here was a creature quite imperfect in detail, yet destined to allure
and enchant whomsoever she might meet. All this was quite the reverse of
Diana's own frigid personality. Patsy would make an excellent foil for
her.
"As you please, my dear," she said graciously; "but do you not think it
would amuse you to make your debut in society--unimpeachable
society--and be properly introduced to the occupants of the 'pedestals,'
as your cousins will be?"
Patsy reflected. If Beth and Louise had determined to undertake this
venture why should she hold back? Moreover, she experienced a girlish
and wholly natural curiosity to witness a fashionable gathering and
"size up" the lions for herself. So she said:
"I'll come, if you really want me; and I'll try my best to behave
nicely. But I can't imagine why you have chosen to take us three girls
under your wing; unless--" with sudden intuition, "it's for Uncle John's
sake."
"That was it, at first," replied Diana, rising to go; "but now that I've
seen you I'm delighted to have you on your own account. Come early,
dear; we must be ready to receive our guests by nine."
"Nine o'clock!" reflected Patsy, when her visitor had gone; "why, I'm
often in bed by that time."