of her delight, and
hitched her chair nearer her sister.

"Yes, yes, let's talk, let's--let's _grumble_! We're both in the dumps,
and it's so cheering to grumble and get it off your mind. Go on, you're
the eldest--you've the first turn. Is it Maud?"

"Oh, Maud! Maud is enough to drive anyone crazy; but she's only a
part."

"What's the rest?"

Rowena leant her head on her hand and stared out of the window. The
garden was dank and deserted, the country beyond showed no sign of
habitation; the wind moaned among the tall, bare trees.

"Dreda," she asked unexpectedly, "am I pretty?"

Dreda's grey eyes widened with surprise.

"What in the world has that to do with it?" she asked curiously.
"Pretty? Yes, of course. Awfully, when you're in a good temper. We
all are. It's in the family. Do you know what Susan calls us?--the
youngest Currant Bun, you know--`The Story-Book Saxons.' Isn't it a
jolly name? Because, she says, we look as if things would happen to us
like they do to people in a book."

"Well, they don't to me, anyway. That's just it! What's the use of
being pretty if one is buried alive? Think of it, Dreda! nothing has
happened all these six long weeks, except old ladies coming to call, and
going to tea with mother at the vicarage. I should think there never
was such a dull place. We didn't notice before, because it was holiday
time, and the house was full, but it's awful for a permanency. The
nearest interesting girl lives four miles off, the others are too boring
for words. I asked one of them if there were ever any dances, and she
laughed and asked whom we should dance with. There are only three young
men within a radius of miles. There might perhaps be a Hunt Ball at C--
next autumn. ... And I thought I should have a London season!"

Dreda meditated, hunched up in her chair, her chin resting upon her
hand. For the moment the scarcity of dances did not affect herself, but
she loyally endeavoured to regard the situation from her sister's point
of view.

"Are the three young men _nice_?"

"Oh, my dear, what does it matter? There aren't enough of them to
count. Bob Ainslie is one; he used to come over to umpire for the boys'
cricket matches. You remember him--freckles and stick-out ears. He has
a moustache now. I expect he's quite nice, but he is _not_ exciting.
Another is Frank Ross, at the Manor House--I believe he is generally in
town. And that nice old Mrs Seton has a son