better than yours, let me tell you.”

 

“I’m sure you have,” I murmured mechanically.

 

My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.

 

“There was old Mrs. Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger,

Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the

liner. Let me see—that’s four. Yes, and old George Evans with his ulcer. And

lastly——”

 

She paused significantly.

 

“Well?”

 

Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed in the most approved

style—aided by the fortunate number of s’s at her disposal.

 

“_Miss Russell!_”

 

She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at

you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, quite untruthfully. “Why shouldn’t Miss

Russell consult me about her bad knee?”