“‘Mine! no; why, look here,’ and she held a shoe against her foot, which, although small, outstripped the shoe in width and length. ‘They’re granny’s, I reckon,’ she added. “Then she took up the bodice and examined it critically. “‘It’s a bit rotten, of course,’ she remarked, pulling cautiously at the stuff, ‘but where’d you buy satin now to last as well as that? and bought abroad, too.’ “The subtlest inflection of resentment was in her tone. “‘Here, give them to me,’ she said. ‘Granny can’t want these old rags, messing up the house. There’s little enough cupboard room anyhow. I’ll put the shawl away up in the attic, for there’s wear in it yet, but the rest can go on the midden.’ “I detained her. “‘Tell me first, how comes your grandmother to have these things?’ “She was surprised at my ignorance. “‘To start with, she’s father’s grandmother, not mine. She’s so old, I forget her mostly.... She’s ninety-six, ninety-seven come Christmas. We’re wondering if she’ll last to a hundred.’ “How callous she was! Triply callous, I thought, because of her own youth, because of her great-grandmother’s extreme age, and because of the natural philosophic indifference of her class towards life and death. “‘She was a dancer, once, you know,’ she went on. ‘Used to dance on the stage, and my great-grandfather found her there, and married her. What a tiny little thing she must have been, just look at this,’ and she held the little bodice across her own breast with a gay laugh, like a child trying to put on the clothes of its biggest doll. “Then she held the skirt against her slender hips to show me how short it was, and pointed her foot in an instinctive dance position. “She was holding up the bodice by tucking it under her chin. I looked at her, and she blushed, and convinced me that no woman ever stands altogether innocent of coquetry before any man. “‘Tell me more about your grandmother,’ I said. “‘It’s so long ago,’ she replied. ‘She had two children, and one was my father’s father, and the other was Rawdon Westmacott’s mother. You know my cousin Rawdon?’ “‘I know him,’ I said. ‘So you and he are of different generations, though there’s not more than twelve years between you in age.’ “‘Yes, that’s so. Now I come to think of it, there’s the old book in the parlour you might like to read, a diary or something, kept by my great-grandfather. It’s only an old thing; I’ve never looked on it myself, but I’ve heard father talk of it. Shall I get it for you?’ “I begged that she would do so, and she ran downstairs, and returned with a little tartan-covered volume in her hand. “‘Father sets great store by it,’ she said hesitatingly, as she gave it up to me. “‘He won’t object to my reading it?’ “‘Oh, no, if you’ve a mind.’ “She evidently looked down on me a good deal for my interest in the old-fashioned volume.