"Yes," said Barbara, untruthfully.

"That's my governess, Miss Marsh, there, with the green hat, that is.
I've had her two months."

"Yes," said Barbara, gazing with adoring eyes.

"She's going away next week. There's another coming. I can do sums, can
you?"

"Yes," again from Barbara.

"I can do up to twice-sixty-three. I'm nine. Miss Marsh says I'm
clever."

"I'm seven," said Barbara.

"I could read when I was seven--long, long words. Can you read?"

At this moment there arrived the green-hatted Miss Marsh, a plump,
optimistic person, to whom Miss Letts was gloomily patronising. Miss
Letts always distrusted stoutness in another; it looked like deliberate
insult. Mary Adams was conveyed away; Barbara was bereft of her glory.

But, rather, on that instant that Mary Adams vanished did she become
glorified. Barbara had been too absurdly agitated to transform on to the
mirror of her brain Mary's appearance. In all the dim-coloured splendour
of flame and mist was Mary now enwrapped, with every step that Barbara
took towards her home did the splendour grow.