Phil, as
usual, sat on the edge of the schoolroom table. "Well, you three gay and
festive creatures," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand
toward us, "what's your true and honest opinion of the afternoon's
tea-fight, politely termed 'reception'? You needn't all speak at once,
you know."
"Thanks awfully for the information," laughed Nora, making him a very
graceful and sweeping bow. "Well, except for the unhappy _quart d'heure_
that papa gave us, I enjoyed the reception immensely. Oh, I'd _love_ to
be out in society," she said, with sparkling eyes, "and meet lots of
people, and go to balls and receptions and all those affairs every day
of my life. That's what _I_ call living,--not this stupid, humdrum
school life; and I 'll have them all, too, some day, see if I don't,"
she ended, with a toss of her head and a little conscious laugh. Nora
knows she's pretty; that's one of the things that spoil her.
Phil eyed her severely, wrinkling up his brows. "Eleanor, my love," he
remarked, with his most fatherly air, "I beg that you will bear in mind
the fable of the unwise canine who lost his piece of meat by trying to
catch its larger reflection in the stream, and endeavour to profit
thereby.
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