But not how matters stood with the House of Arran.
"Honey-bud," she said, "you must be ve'y polite to this young man." "I expect to be.

Only I don't quite understand why he came so unceremoniously----" "It would have been ruder to neglect us, little Puritan! I want to see Connie Berkley's boy.

I'm glad he came." Celia Craig, once Celia Marye Ormond Paige, stood watching her taller sister-in-law twisting up her hair and winding the thick braid around the crown of her head _a la coronal_.

Little wonder that these two were so often mistaken for own sisters--the matron not quite as tall as the young widow, but as slender, and fair, and cast in the same girlish mould.
Both inherited from their Ormond ancestry slightly arched and dainty noses and brows, delicate hands and feet, and the same splendid dull-gold hair--features apparently characteristic of the line, all the women of which had been toasts of a hundred years ago, before Harry Lee hunted men and the Shadow of the Swamp Fox flitted through the cypress to a great king's undoing.
Ailsa laid a pink bow against her hair and glanced at her sister-in-law for approval.
"I declare.

Honey-bud, you are all rose colour to-day," said Celia Craig, smiling; and, on impulse, unpinned the pink-and-white cameo from her own throat and fastened it to Ailsa's breast.
"I reckon I'll slip on a gay gown myse'f," she added mischievously.
"I certainly am becoming ve'y tired of leaving the field to my sister-in-law, and my schoolgirl daughters." "Does anybody ever look at us after you come into a room ?" asked Ailsa, laughing; and, turning impulsively, she pressed Celia's pretty hands flat together and kissed them.