"Nothing."

"You surely aren't putting that skirt on?"

"Why not?"

"You'll catch it finely, I can tell you!"

Without further defence, Sophia sprang out from behind the immense
glass. She had already shed a notable part of her own costume, and
the flush of mischief was in her face. She ran across to the other
side of the room and examined carefully a large coloured print
that was affixed to the wall.

This print represented fifteen sisters, all of the same height and
slimness of figure, all of the same age--about twenty-five or so,
and all with exactly the same haughty and bored beauty. That they
were in truth sisters was clear from the facial resemblance
between them; their demeanour indicated that they were princesses,
offspring of some impossibly prolific king and queen. Those hands
had never toiled, nor had those features ever relaxed from the
smile of courts. The princesses moved in a landscape of marble
steps and verandahs, with a bandstand and strange trees in the
distance. One was in a riding-habit, another in evening attire,
another dressed for tea, another for the theatre; another seemed
to be ready to go to bed. One held a little girl by the hand; it
could not have been her own little girl, for these princesses were
far beyond human passions. Where had she obtained the little girl?
Why was one sister going to the theatre, another to tea, another
to the stable, and another to bed? Why was one in a heavy mantle,