"Phyllis," said I, "do you remember the day we first met?"

We were in the morning room of the Wentworth mansion at B----.
Phyllis, Pembroke and I sat before the warm grate, while Mrs. Wentworth
and Ethel stood by one of the windows, comparing some shades of ribbon.
My presence at B---- was due to a wire I had sent to New York, which
informed headquarters that I was on the track of a great sensation.
The return wire had said, "Keep on it."

"When first we met?" echoed Phyllis. "Why, it was at Block Island."

"Oh," said I, "I do not refer to the time when you had shouldered the
responsibilities of a society bud. I mean the time when the
introduction was most informal. You were at the time selling lemonade
without license and with very little lemon."

"Selling lemonade?" cried Pembroke.

"Never mind him, Mr. Pembroke," laughed Phyllis.

"It was a long time ago," I went on. "I was a new reporter. Mr.
Wentworth had to be interviewed. It was one of those hot days in May.
The servant at the door said that Mr. Wentworth was in the back
yard--he called it the garden--where I soon found myself. You had a
small table, a glass and a pitcher. I suppose every time your uncle
got thirsty you sold him a glass. You wore short dresses--"