Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. "You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate. “I only use the weeniest little dab of rouge,” she declared, “and it is really necessary, because I want to get rid of the ‘pallor effect. The stipendiary would have done it all very differently. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this.
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