Mrs.Rushton had had no leisure to think of it.

She looked upon Hetty as still only a babe, a marmoset born to amuse her own hours of ennui.

In her brother's occasional letters he sometimes devoted a line to Hetty.

"I hope you are not spoiling the little girl," he would add as a postscript; or, "I hope the child is learning something besides monkey-tricks." These insinuations always annoyed Mrs.Rushton, and she never condescended to answer them.
The suggestion that she had incurred a great responsibility by adopting Hetty was highly disagreeable to her.
It is hard to say how long this state of things might have gone on had not Mrs.Rushton's health become delicate.

She suddenly found herself unable to enjoy the gay life which was so much to her natural taste.