The French mistress opened another door, revealing a parlor that lived up to its title by the blue of its paper and drapes. There was, however, one slight problem. Or rather, three slight problems.

“I say,” said Turnip. “Only one of these is mine.”

The one that happened to be his jumped up out of her chair. There was no denying the family resemblance. Sally’s bright gold hair was considerably longer, of course, and she wore a white muslin dress rather than a — if Turnip said so himself — deuced fetching carnation-patterned waistcoat, but they had the same long-boned bodies and cameo-featured faces.

They were, thought Turnip without conceit, a very attractive family. As more than one would-be wit had said, they were all long on looks and short on brains.

It was only fair, really. One couldn’t expect to have everything.

Sally gave him a loud smack on the cheek.

“Silly Reggie!” she said, in the fond tone she used when other people were around. “I wanted Agnes and Lizzy to meet my favorite brother. It’s so lovely to see you. Do you have my hamper?”

“Right here,” said Turnip, brandishing it. “And jolly heavy it is, too. What do you have in here? Bricks?”

“What would I do with those?” demanded Sally in tones of sisterly scorn.

“Build something?” suggested one of her friends, revealing a dimple in one cheek. There were two of them, both attired in muslin dresses with blue sashes. The one who had spoken had bronzy curls and a decided look of mischief about her.

“Oh, Miss Climpson would adore that,” said Sally witheringly. Dropping the lid of the hamper, she belatedly remembered her manners. “Reggie, allow me to present you to Miss Agnes Wooliston” — the taller of the two girls curtsied — “and Miss Lizzy Reid.” Bronze curls bounced.