Dear me!"-- and Cornelia threw herself back in her chair and uplifted her gloved hands in a little gesture of ineffability--"you would never imagine what a bore society is, after all." The professor, from his cloud, cast, unobserved, a glance of quiet scrutiny at his daughter.

A certain jaunty embroidery of tone and manner struck him at once--she wasn't quite the same simple little woman who had gone to New York two months ago.

Well, well, they would wear off, perhaps, these little affectations; and then, too, it was not to be expected of her that she'd be a girl all her life.

They all must needs pass through this stage to something better--or worse: all women of pith and passion like Cornelia.
"How did you leave Aunt Margaret ?" inquired he.
"Oh, _desolee_, because I would go away," replied Cornelia, with a very pretty laugh.

"She vowed she could have spared me much better six weeks earlier; for, you see, after I'd learned the ropes, and how to take care of myself, I became, as she expressed it, 'such a dear, sweet, _invaluable_ little _attachee_.'" Sophie laughed at the comical air with which her sister repeated the sentence; yet, when her laugh was gone, there remained a slight shadow of disappointment.