ow, I should think. They were still at Siena
when Gwen heard from Dorothy last, and it was unbearably hot, even
there."

"I thought Cis wrote to Dolly in Florence."

"Not the last letter. They were at the Montequattrinis' in May. That's
what you're thinking of. Cis wrote to her there, then. It was another
letter."

"'Spose I'm wrong! I meant the letter where she told how the very old
lady walked with them to the grave."

"Old Mrs. Marrable. Yes--and old Mrs. Alibone had to go in the carriage,
because of her foot, or something. She has a bad foot. That was in the
middle of June. _That_ letter _was_ to Fiesole. You do get so mixed up."

"Expect I do. Fancy that old lady, though, at ninety-eight!"

"Yes--fancy! Gwen said she was just as strong this year as last. She'll
live to be a hundred, I do believe. Why--the other old woman at Chorlton
is over seventy! Her daughter--or is it niece? I never know...."

"Didn't Cis say she spoke of her as 'my mother'?"

"No--that was the twin sister that died. But she always spoke _to_ her
as 'mother.'"

"Oh ah--that was what Cis couldn't make head or tail of. Rather a
puzzling turn out! But I say...."

"What?... Wait till we get out of the noise. What were you going to
say?"

"Isn't her head rather ... I mean, doesn't she show signs of...."

"Senile decay? No. What makes you think that?"

"Of course, _I_ don't know. I only go by what our girl said. Of course,
Gwen Torrens is still one of the most beautiful women in London--or
anywhere, for that matter! And it may have been, nothing but that."

"Oh, I know what you mean now. 'Glorious Angel.' I don't think anything
of that.... Isn't that the children there--by the Pelicans?"

It was, apparently. A very handsome young man and a very pretty girl,
who must have been only sixteen--as her parents could not be
mistaken--but she looked more. Both were evidently enjoying both,
extremely; and nothing seemed to be further from their thoughts than
losing sight of one another.

Says Mrs. Pellew from her chariot:--"My dear, what an endless time you
have been away! I wish you wouldn't. It makes your father so fidgety."
Whereupon each of these two young people says:--"It wasn't me." And
either glances furtively at the other. No doubt it was both.

"Never mind which it was now, but tell me about old Mrs. Marrable at
Chorlton. I want to know what it was she called your Aunt Gwen."

"Yes--tell about Granny Marrowbone," says the young