alluded to her as "the ludicrous Cole child," they told awed little
stories about the infant's mental capacities, and concluded
comfortably, "I'm glad Alice (or Jane or Matilda or Anabel) isn't
clever like that. They overwork when they are young, and then when
they grow up--"

Meanwhile Mary led her private life. She attached herself to no one
but Jeremy; she was delicate and suffered from perpetual colds; she
therefore spent much of her time in the nursery reading, her huge
spectacles close to the page, her thin legs like black sticks stuck
up on the fender in front of the fire or curled up under her on the
window-seat.

Very different was Helen. Helen had a mass of dark black hair, big
black eyes with thick eye-lashes, a thin white neck, little feet,
and already an eye to "effects" in dress. She was charming to
strangers, to the queer curates who haunted the family hall, to poor
people and rich people, to old people and young people. She was
warm-hearted but not impulsive, intelligent but not clever,
sympathetic but not sentimental, impatient but never uncontrolled.
She liked almost everyone and almost everything, but no one and
nothing mattered to her very deeply; she liked going to church,
always learnt her Collect first on Sunday, and gave half her pocket-
money to the morning collection. She was generous but never
extravagant, enjoyed food but was not greedy. She was quite aware
that she was pretty and might one day be beautiful, and she was glad
of that, but she was never silly about her looks.

When Aunt Amy, who was always silly about everything, said in her
presence to visitors, "Isn't Helen the loveliest thing you ever