A
subscription of half a crown per quarter entitles you to go
without ninety-two luncheons.''
``This must be something new,'' exclaimed Tarrington.
``It's the same aunt that I've always had,'' said Clovis
coldly.
``I perfectly well remember meeting you at a
luncheon-party given by your aunt,'' persisted Tarrington,
who was beginning to flush an unhealthy shade of mottled
pink.
``What was there for lunch?'' asked Clovis.
``Oh, well, I don't remember that---''
``How nice of you to remember my aunt when you can no
longer recall the names of the things you ate. Now my
memory works quite differently. I can remember a menu long
after I've forgotten the hostess that accompanied it. When
I was seven years old I recollect being given a peach at a
garden-party by some Duchess or other; I can't remember a
thing about her, except that I imagine our acquaintance must
have been of the slightest, as she called me a `nice little
boy,' but I have unfading memories of that peach. It was
one of those exuberant peaches that meet you halfway, so to
speak, and are all over you in a moment. It was a beautiful
unspoiled product of a hothouse, and yet it managed quite
successfully to give itself the airs of a compote.
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