conceptions, and she found herself fitting a history to this person and a theory to that, and making a place for them all in her little private museum of types. But if she said little, her sister on one side and Willie Woodley on the other expressed themselves in lively alternation.
"Look at that green dress with blue flounces," said Mrs. Westgate. "Quelle toilette!"
"That's the Marquis of Blackborough," said the young man—"the one in the white coat. I heard him speak the other night in the House of Lords; it was something about ramrods; he called them wamwods. He's an awful swell."
"Did you ever see any thing like the way they are pinned back?" Mrs. Westgate resumed. "They never know where to stop."
"They do nothing but stop," said Willie Woodley. "It prevents them from walking. Here comes a great celebrity—Lady Beatrice Bellevue. She's awfully fast; see what little steps she takes."
"Well, my dear," Mrs. Westgate pursued, "I hope you are getting some ideas for your couturière?"
"I am getting plenty of ideas," said Bessie, "but I don't know that my couturière would appreciate them."
Willie Woodley presently perceived a friend on horseback, who drove up beside the barrier of the
