have been specially designed to show the health and symmetry of the
girl's young form. She seemed to walk on air, and her presence
transformed the quiet old room.

"I want some tea badly," said Miss Pitstone, throwing herself into a
chair, "and so would you, Cousin Philip, if you had been battling with
four grubby children and an idiot mother all the way from London. They
made me play 'beasts' with them. I didn't mind that, because my roaring
frightened them. But then they turned me into a fish, and fished for me
with the family umbrellas. I had distinctly the worst of it." And she
took off her cap, turning it round on her hand, and looking at the dints
in it with amusement.

"Oh, no, you never get the worst of it!" said Lord Buntingford, laughing,
as he handed her the cake. "You couldn't if you tried."

She looked up sharply. Then she turned to Mrs. Friend.

"That's the way my guardian treats me, Mrs. Friend. How can I take him
seriously?"

"I think Lord Buntingford meant it as a compliment--didn't he?" said Mrs.
Friend shyly. She knew, alack, that she had no gift for repartee.

"Oh, no, he never pays compliments--least of all to me. He has a most
critical, fault-finding mind. Haven't you, Cousin Philip?"

"What a charge!" said Lord Buntingford, lighting another cigarette. "It
won't take Mrs. Friend long to find out its absurdity."