had the most perfect of appetites. She had never, from the day of her
birth, known an hour's illness.

It was, however, in the company of other children that she was most
characteristic. The nurses in the Square quite frankly hated her, but
most of the mothers had a very real regard for Lady Charlotte's smart
little lunches; moreover, it was impossible to detect Sarah's guilt in
any positive fashion. It was not enough for the nurses to assure their
mistresses that from the instant that the child entered the gardens all
the other children were out of temper, rebellious, and finally
unmanageable.

"Nonsense, Janet, you imagine things. She seems a very nice little
girl."

"Well, ma'am, all I can say is, I won't care to be answerable for Master
Ronald's behaviour when she _does_ come along, that's all. It's beyond
belief the effect she 'as upon 'im."

The strangest thing of all was that Sarah herself liked the company of
other children. She went every morning into the gardens (with Hortense)
and watched them at their play. She would sit, with her hands folded
quietly on her lap, her large black eyes watching, watching, watching.
It was odd, indeed, how, instantly, all the children in the garden were
aware of her entrance. She, on her part, would appear to regard none of
them, and yet would see them all. Perched on her seat she surveyed the
gardens always with the same gaze of abstracted interest, watching the
clear, decent paths across whose grey background at the period of this
episode, the October leaves, golden, flaming, dun, gorgeous and
shrivelled, fell through the still air, whirled, and with a little sigh