list.'

The discussion went on endlessly, long after Henrietta herself had
tired of it. It was lengthened by the insertion of anecdotes of
Caroline's and Sophia's youth, and hardly a colour or a material was
mentioned which did not recall an incident which Henrietta found more
interesting than her own sartorial affairs.

Rose had disappeared, and the dressing-bell was rung before the
subject languished. It would never be exhausted, for Caroline, and
even Sophia, less vivid than her sister in all but her affections,
grew pink and bright-eyed in considering Henrietta's points. And all
the time Henrietta had her own opinions, her own plans. She intended
as far as possible to preserve her likeness to her father, which was,
as it were, her stock-in-trade. She pictured herself, youthfully slim,
gravely petulant, her round neck rising from a Byronic collar fastened
with a broad, loose bow, and she fancied the society of Radstowe
exclaiming with one voice, 'That must be Reginald Mallett's daughter!'

She was to learn, however, that in Radstowe the memories of Reginald
Mallett were somewhat dim, and where they were clear they were
neglected. It was generally assumed that his daughter would not care
to have him mentioned, while praises of her aunts were constant and
enthusiastic and people were kind to Henrietta, she discovered, for
their sakes.

The stout and highly-coloured Mrs. Batty was an early caller. She
arrived, rather wheezy, compressed by her tailor into an expensive
gown, a basket of spring flowers on her head. She and Henrietta took
to each other, as Mrs. Batty said, at once. Here was a motherly