night, too, and only left after breakfast. He's insane about London, but
I could see that he's glad to get back to the Province. Mr. Forsythe is
very abrupt, but ridiculously proud of him--"

"These Winscombes," Howat interrupted, "what about them? The Forsythes
are a common occurrence."

"David's been gone more than three years," she replied. "And you should
hear him talk; he's got a coat with wired tails in his box he's dying to
wear, but is afraid of his father. Oh, the Winscombes! Well, he's rather
sweet, sixty or sixty-five years old; very straight up the back, and
wears the loveliest wigs. His servant fixes them on a stand--he turns
the curls about little rolls of clay, ties them with paper, and then
bakes it in the oven like a pudding. The servant is an Italian with a
long duck's bill of a nose and quick little black eyes. He makes our
negro women giggle like anything. It's evident he is fearfully
impertinent. And, what do you think?--he hooks Mrs. Winscombe into her
stays! Mother says that that isn't anything, really; Mrs. Winscombe is a
lady of the court, and the most extraordinary happenings go on there.
You see, mother knows a lot about her family, and it's very good; she's
part Polish and part English, and her name's Ludowika. She's ages
younger than her husband.

"Myrtle doesn't like her,--" she stopped midway in her torrent of
information. "I came in to talk to you about Myrtle," she went on in a
different voice; "that is, partly about Myrtle, but more of myself and
of--"

"How long are the others going to stay?" he cut in heedlessly.