For a little airy woman who looks as if one could blow her away--puff!--like a morsel of thistle-down or a snowball, what a heavy foot Mrs.Huntley has! The next moment, I am disabused.

Mrs.Huntley has clearly not moved.

It was not _she_ that scrambled.

She is lying back in a deep arm-chair, her silky head gently denting the flowered cushion, the points of two pretty shoes slightly advanced toward the fire, and a large feather fan leisurely waving to and fro, in one white hand.

Beyond the _fan_ movement she is not _doing_ any thing that I can detect.
"How do you do ?" say I, bustling in, in a hurry to reach the fire.