've never told me anything about yourself, and I've
always told you lots about myself. You belong to an old-fashioned family.
How were you treated when you were my age?"

"In what way?"

"You know what way," said Audrey, gazing at her.

"Well, my dear. Things seemed to come very naturally, somehow."

"Were you ever engaged?"

"Me? Oh, no!" answered Miss Ingate with tranquillity. "I'm vehy interested
in them. Oh, vehy! Oh, vehy! And I like talking to them. But anything more
than that gets on my nerves. My eldest sister was the one. Oh! She was the
one. She refused eleven men, and when she was going to be married she made
me embroider the monograms of all of them on the skirt of her
wedding-dress. She made me, and I had to do it. I sat up all night the
night before the wedding to finish them."

"And what did the bridegroom say about it?"

"The bridegroom didn't say anything about it because he didn't know. Nobody
knew except Arabella and me. She just wanted to feel that the monograms
were on her dress, that was all."

"How strange!"

"Yes, it was. But this is a vehy strange part of the world."

"And what happened afterwards?"

"Bella died when she had her first baby, and the baby died as well. And the
father's dead now, too."

"What a horrid story, Winnie!" Audrey murmured. And after a pause: "I like
your sister."

"She was vehy uncommon. But I liked her too. I don't know why, but I did.
She could make the best marmalade I ever tasted in my born days."

"I could make the best marmalade you ever tasted in your born days," said
Audrey, sinking neatly to the floor and crossing her legs, "but they won't
let me."

"Won't let you! But I thought you did all sorts of things in the house."

"No, Winnie. I only do one thing. I do as I'm told--and not always even
that. Now, if I wanted to make the best marmalade you ever tasted in your
born days, first of all there would be a fearful row about the oranges.
Secondly, father would tell mother she must tell me exactly what I was to
do. He would also tell cook. Thirdly and lastly, dear friends, he would
come into the kitchen himself. It wouldn't be my marmalade at all. I should
only be a marmalade-making machine. They never let me have any
responsibility--no, not even when mother's operation was on--and I'm never
officially free. The kitchen-maid has far more responsibility than I have.
And she has an evening off and an afternoon off. She can write a letter
without e