"My husband is away for a few nights," Theodosia remarked carelessly. "He may come back to-morrow. It is uncertain. I could not send the pony-carriage, after all. Keith and I wanted it in another direction. But, of course, you could easily manage." "There were plenty of cabs," Lettice said, with some difficulty. Theodosia's cold manner was in painful contrast with all the love and petting which she had had at the Farm: and the journey, though not long, had tried her considerably. She had eaten nothing since early morning, and she felt unnerved and shaken. Theodosia surveyed her critically. "I thought they said you were well again. Why did they not keep you a little longer? Now, Keith, you are rumpling my collar. Hands off, my sweet. Let me see—how old are you?—" to Lettice. "She grown-up, Mamsie," pronounced Keith. "I'm sixteen, next month." "I should have taken you for thirteen. Have you ever seen Dr. Bryant?" "No, never." Theodosia yawned in an obtrusive manner. "Well, I suppose you have lunched." "I had sandwiches with me." It was not necessary to state that she had been unable to eat them. "Nearly half-past three now. We have tea at about five. You will like to go upstairs, and unpack some of your things. And there is the cabman to be paid. Keith, love, you'll show Miss Anderson the way, won't you?" "Up to the garrets, Mamsie?" Theodosia frowned slightly. "Nonsense, darling. To the top spare bedroom. You don't call that a garret, I hope. Go, like a little dear. Mamsie is tired." "And it's such an awful long way up," said Keith. "Long! Rubbish, you dear little goosie. You should see the stairs in a Town house." Keith marched out of the room, and Lettice followed, stumbling over a chair on her way, and eliciting thereby an impatient murmur from Mrs. Bryant. Lettice paused in the hall to pay the cabman, emptying her purse in the act, and then pulled herself wearily upstairs—mounting two short flights to the first floor, then a steep and narrow flight to the garret-floor. Not an "awful long way" as compared with London staircases, certainly, but long at that moment to Lettice's sensations. The room, which Theodosia in her husband's absence had decided upon as "good enough for that child," was small and low, with slanting roof and window of limited capacity. A square of worn drugget covered the centre of the floor: the plain deal furniture was scanty; the window boasted no curtains; the four big boxes were piled together, two upon two: and lesser packages lay about. [Illustration: Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is.] "Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is," said Keith, with an air of superior knowledge. "I don't think there is any harm in a garret," Lettice answered calmly.