"Guy," whispered Forrester, as we went up stairs, "there's a little
woman here who says she used to know you very well: won't you go and
talk to her?"

"Many little women say that," answered Guy; "it's a way they have. Which
is it, now?"

Charley pointed out a small, plump, rather pretty blonde, with long
ringlets, and light, laughing blue eyes. It seemed the lady's
reminiscences were well founded, for in five minutes Livingstone and she
were talking like old friends.

In the course of the evening I found myself near Miss Bellasys. This
time she did me the honor to address me, and soon began asking me more
questions than I could answer, even had she waited a reply. Did I like
Kerton Manor? Had there been many agreeable people there yet? Not any
remarkably so! She was surprised at that. Miss Raymond was there _en
permanence_, of course? She was such a favorite with her (Flora), and
with her cousin too, she thought. Was Mr. Livingstone always playing
with his uncle, and always losing? She supposed he liked losing--at
play. Did I know the lady in pink, with twenty-five flowers in her hair?
She had counted them. Yes, that was her husband, the stout man looking
uncomfortable, in the corner--an old friend of Mr. Livingstone's? He had
so many old friends; but he did not always talk to them for a whole
evening without intermission. Ah! she was going to sing; that is, if
Mr. Livingstone had quite finished with her, and would let her go.
Little women with pink cheeks and dresses always _did_ sing, and never
had any voice.