“_I_ saw Honor doing her hair; it’s long and real, like mine,” with a conceited toss of her blonde locks--“down to here,” indicating the length on her own small person. “She does not put on bits, like mamma. Mamma’s fringe is all pinned on, with long pieces that fasten it at the side, like this,” demonstrating their situation with tiny tell-tale fingers; “or like you,” turning to Mrs. Brande. “_I_ saw your plait!” “Well, I hope you admired it!” rejoined the lady, with somewhat staggering _sang froid_. “It grew on my own head once.” And Sweet, finding that the topic was _not_ a painful one, ceased to pursue it. She was fond of sitting on Mark’s knee, with her arm closely locked round his neck, her cheek pressed against his, looking at pictures or listening to stories. Indeed, he seemed (as Mrs. Brande remarked) to have hypnotized her. Ben still distrusted the child, so did Ben’s grandpapa and grandmamma; but every one else appeared to think that Sweet Primrose was now quite a pattern--a reformed character. She went down to the band, exquisitely dressed, in fluffed out petticoats and fine silk stockings, in charge of her fat, jewelled ayah; there she secretly administered pinches right and left to other children, and rudely criticized their clothes. She strolled into the ladies’ room, ostensibly to look at the picture papers; and she was, among her elders, so quiet, so piano, such a dainty, flounced-out little mortal, that old acquaintances could hardly realize that _this_ was their own original and most disagreeable “Sweet.” It was Mrs. Brande’s birthday, and Mrs. Brande’s birthday had not been forgotten by her friends. There were cards, letters, and little presents from some of the “boys,” a lovely sachel from Honor (secretly manufactured as a surprise), bouquets, an exquisite silver lamp from Mark Jervis, which she remarked to Honor “must have cost the poor boy a frightful sum!”--last, not least, a silver photograph-frame, with “Ben’s respects.” Mrs. Brande’s face was radiant. She went straight up to Mark with her presents in her hands. “It was too bad of you to buy me such a grand present, and just what I was longing for--and Ben. _That_ was your idea too! Do you know that I have a great mind to give you a kiss,” she said threateningly. Sweet, who was playing with her porridge, stiffened with expectation, and awaited further developments with a pair of enormous eyes. But Mrs. Brande did not carry out her menace--no; she merely said-- “You are only a boy, and I’m an old lady. How old are you, by the way, eh? I must make a note of your birthday.” “I was twenty-six last April.” “Twenty-six! Why, you don’t look it by five years,” sitting down before the teapot and a pile of letters and little parcels which lay beside her plate.