the older girls was a custom . . . . I do not recall her . . . .
There was always a string of mites with shiny pigtails and
big-eyed wistful faces. The older girls never thought very much
about them. One has a swarm-memory, but individuals escape one.
The older girl, in these schools, fancied herself immensely. The
little satellite that attached itself, with its adoration, had no
identity. It had a nickname, I think, or a number . . . . I have
forgotten. We minimized these midges out of everything that
could distinguish them . . . . Fancy one of these turning up in
Madame Barras and coming to me on the memory of it."

"It was extremely lucky for her," I said. "Imagine arriving from
the interior of Brazil on the invitation of Mrs. Jordan to find
that lady dead and buried; with no friend, until, by chance, one
happened on your name in the social register, and ventured on a
school attachment of which there might remain, perhaps a memory
only on the infant's side."

My sister went on up the stair.

"I am glad we happened to be here, and, especially, Winthrop, if
you have been able to assist her . . . . She is charming."

Charming was the word descriptive of my sister, for it is a thing
of manner from a nature elevated and noble, but it was not the
word for Madame Barras. The woman was a lure. I mean the term
in its large and catholic sense. I mean the bait of a great
cosmic impulse - the most subtle and the most persistent of which
one has any sense.