"They are all in this house at this moment," said Mr. Fountain,
coolly.
"Who, dear? I fear I was not attending to you. How rude!!"
"Horrid. I say the men and women you inquire for are all in this house
of mine;" and the old gentleman's eyes twinkled.
"Uncle! Heaven forgive you, and--oh, fie!"
"They are, upon my soul."
"Then they must be in some part of it I have not visited. Are they in
the kitchen?" (with a little saucy sneer.)
"No, they are in the library."
"In the lib-- Ah! _le malin!"_
"They were never seen in the drawing-room, and never will be."
"Yet surely they must have lived in nature before they were embalmed
in print," said Lucy, interrogating the ceiling again.
"The nearest approach you will meet to these paragons is Reginald
Talboys," said Fountain, stoutly.
"Uncle, I do love you;" and Lucy rose with Juno-like slowness and
dignity, and, leaning over the old boy, kissed him with sudden small
fury.
"Why?" asked he, eagerly, connecting this majestic squirt of affection
with his last speech.
"Because you are such a nice, dear, _sarcastic_ thing. Let us
drink tea in the library to-morrow, then that will be an approach
to--"
With this illegitimate full stop the conversation ended, and Miss
Fountain took a candle and sauntered to bed.
In church next Sunday Lucy observed a young lady with a beaming face,
who eyed her by stealth in all the interstices of devotion. She asked
her uncle who was that pretty girl with a _nez retrousse.
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