All this was uttered in a languid tone, as if, on the whole, life was too much trouble to be lived at all. Sarah had met with nothing of this kind in all her life before, and looked only impressed; in truth, she looked a good deal more impressed than she was, or rather she looked _differently_ impressed to what she was, and Mrs. George Stubbs was pleased to be a little flattered thereby. "You must come and have tea with me," she observed graciously to May. "I have not been able to get out except the day your mamma called--my unfortunate neuralgia has been so very trying. You may bring Sarah. Would you like to come to-night? "Very much indeed, thank you, Aunt George," responded May. "Very much indeed," echoed Sarah. "Your cousins are, of course, all at school in Paris, and your uncle is in London, so we will have high tea at seven o’clock. Bring your music with you." "Sarah plays the violin," said May, who hated playing in company herself. "She plays it beautifully. She’s going to have lessons." "Then bring your violin and let me hear you," said Mrs. George to Sarah; "it is a most stylish instrument." "I will," said Sarah. "Oh, is Flossie to come, Aunt George?" asked May, as they shook hands. "Flossie? No. I can-_not_ do with Flossie," replied Mrs. George, in a tone which was enough to remind May that the very last time they had visited their aunt, Flossie had been clever enough to break a beautiful Venetian glass, which was, as Mrs. George had remarked pathetically over the fragments, simply of priceless value. CHAPTER XII SARAH MAKES AN IMPRESSION "What a shame!" said Flossie, when she heard of the invitation. "Just like the nasty old thing, to remember an accident that I couldn’t help. Not that I care! I shall enjoy myself far better at home"; and Flossie caught hold of Minnie’s arm, and stalked along the Parade as if she cared so little that she did not want to hear any more about that great lady, her Aunt George. "What did you think of her?" May asked of Sarah. "Is she very ill?" Sarah asked, thinking of the bath-chair and her aunt’s languid wrists and tones. "Ill?--no! Ma says she’s a hy-po-chon-driac," returned May, pronouncing the long word in syllables. "That’s fancying yourself ill when you ain’t. See? But all the same, Aunt George is very stylish." "She’s not half so nice as Auntie," Sarah flashed out. "No, she isn’t! But she’s a great deal stylisher than Ma is," May returned. "Didn’t you hear the way she told the man to go on? ’Go-on-Chawles!’" and May leant back on the seat, slightly waved a languid hand, flickered her drooping eyelids, and gave a half-languid, half-supercilious smile. It was a fine imitation of Mrs. George’s _stylish_ airs, and Sarah was lost in admiration of it.