“Pelham always gives me diamonds,” she went on, “but I have plenty; and, in case you might suppose he had forgotten me this time, he has given me a large cheque for the new Orphanage; so I have done splendidly.” “Did you get any chocolates?” asked Sweet, anxiously. “No, my dear; but I’ll buy a box for you after breakfast.” “And is this really your birthday?” “Yes. Why? Doesn’t it look like it?” triumphantly. “I thought it was only ladies who had birthdays,” remarked this charming little guest, with a severe air; “and Mrs. Dashwood says _you_ are not a lady.” “Well, not by birth, my dear, though I dare say I am as well-born as she is; and, anyway, I take the _pas_ of her in all society.” “Whose pa?” was the sternly put question. As Mark and Honor greeted this query with a burst of laughter, the mite looked excessively pleased with herself. “You will soon find her quite in her best form,” muttered Mr. Brande from behind the _Pioneer_. Then added, in French, “She has been pretty good for a week, and that’s her very longest interval. I saw her down at the fowl-house before breakfast, Honor, with your smart white-silk parasol.” “Mamma always talks just as you do when she is talking about _me_, or about anything she does not want me to know,” cried Sweet, vivaciously. “I’ve done my breakfast,” slipping off her chair, “and I’m going down to see the syce’s children. Oh, won’t I pull their hair;” and she darted away. Sweet was possessed of a demon of unrest that morning--nothing pleased her for more than two minutes, and her indolent ayah calmly left the task of entertaining her to others. Little Miss Primrose never played games, or dressed dolls, or made shops--indeed, Sweet’s tastes were far too advanced for these tame juvenile delights; they had palled years previously. It afforded her far keener pleasure to harry her elders, and to rule her fellow-housemates with a scourge. She wandered aimlessly about, with her piteous shrill cry of, “Amuse me, amuse me! Oh, will _no one_ amuse me!” She had tired of Honor’s hats and new dresses, of chocolates, of Mark’s stories; and her irritating and monotonous appeal had become as maddening as the constant slamming of a door. “Look here, Sweet. I have a grand idea,” said Mark at last. “Would you like me to draw your picture?” “And colour it?” she asked judicially. “Yes; and put in your blue sash, and all.” “And my necklace?” “Certainly--your necklace too, if you please.” “Then do--do--do it this instant minute!” “You must wait till I get my drawing things and paints; and you will have to sit quite, quite still for a whole hour. If you cannot do that, there will only be an _ugly_ picture! Do you understand? My easel and things are at Haddon Hall. I must send for them; so if you like to go and smarten yourself up, you can.” He had scarcely ceased to speak, ere the vain little creature strutted straight off to her own room, loudly calling for her ayah in imperious Hindostani.