"Well! And how have you been all day? Dull?" It was the pleasantest voice! Quite a contrast after that of Mr. Edwin Barley. "Much any of you care whether I am dull or gay," she returned in answer, half laughing, half pouting. "The partridges get all your time, just now. I might be dead and buried before any of you came home to see after me." "We must shoot, you know, Selina. One of us, at any rate, came home a couple of hours ago—Barley." "Not to me. He has but just come in. You must be mistaken." "Look here. I was away for a short while from the party, seeing after the horse I lamed the other day, and when I got back, Barley had vanished: they thought he had gone to look after me. Perhaps he had in one sense, the great simpleton—Halloa! who's that?" He broke off, seeing me for the first time, as I stood partly within the shade of the window-curtain. "It is little Anne Hereford. She has come a week before I expected her. Anne, come forward, and let Mr. Heneage make love to you. It is a pastime he favours." He lifted me up by the waist, looked at me, and put me down again. "A pretty little face to make love to. How old are you?" "Eleven, sir." "Eleven!" he echoed, in surprise. "I should have taken you for nine at the very most. Eleven!" "And eleventeen in sober sense," interposed Selina, in her lightest and most careless manner. "I suppose children are so who never live with brothers and sisters. You should hear her talk, George! I tell her, her mamma and nurse have made an old woman of her." "Dare I venture to your presence in this trim, Mrs. Edwin Barley?" The speaker was the Rev. Mr. Martin, who came slowly in, pointing to his attire. "It is Barley's fault, and you must blame him, not me," he continued. "Barley invited me to say grace at your table to-day, and then disappeared, keeping us waiting for him until now, and giving me no time to go home and make myself presentable." "Never mind, Mr. Martin, there are worse misfortunes at sea," she said, in that charmingly attractive manner that she could sometimes use. "I have sat down with gentlemen in shooting-coats before to-day, and enjoyed my dinner none the worse for it. Is that you, Miss Delves?" Footsteps were passing the open door, and Miss Delves came in. "Did you speak, Mrs. Edwin Barley?" "Yes. Take this child, please: she must have some tea. Anne dear, ask for anything to eat that you best fancy. You shall come up again after dinner." We went to a small parlour on the ground floor—Miss Delves said it was her own sitting-room—and she rang the bell. The maid who had been gossiping at the front door came in to answer it. "Are you at tea still, Jemima?" "Yes, Miss Delves." "I thought so. There's no regularity unless I'm about everywhere myself. Bring in a cup for Miss Hereford, and some bread and butter."