"Miss Wren is a particular old lady." Sylvia was down in the drawing-room in five minutes, hair brushed, hands washed, collar straight.

She went up to Miss Wren to be introduced to her, and then sat down in a corner by the window with a book.

Miss Wren was very deaf, and her deafness had the effect, as she could not in the least hear her own voice, of making her shout out her observations in a very loud tone, sometimes rather embarrassing for those to whom they were addressed, or, still worse, for those concerning whom they were made.
"Nice little girl," she remarked to grandmother, "very nice, pretty-behaved little girl.

Rather like poor Mary, is she not?
Not so pretty! Dear me, what a pretty girl Mary was the first winter you were here, twelve, no, let me see, fourteen years ago! Never could think what made her take a fancy to that solemn-looking husband of hers." Grandmother laid her hand warningly on Miss Wren's arm, and glanced in Sylvia's direction, and greatly to her relief just then, there came a diversion in the shape of Molly.

Grandmother happened to be asked a question at this moment by a servant who just came into the room, and had therefore turned aside for an instant as Molly came up to speak to Miss Wren.