unmistakably possessed something of the other's
personality, far more than did Myrtle. She said generally, patently only
delaying for the moment communications of much greater interest than
himself, "Where were you last night?" He told her, and she plunged at
once into a rich store of information.

"Did you know that Mr. and Mrs. Winscombe are staying on? It's so,
because of the fever in the city. David and his father stopped all
night, too, and only left after breakfast. He's insane about London, but
I could see that he's glad to get back to the Province. Mr. Forsythe is
very abrupt, but ridiculously proud of him--"

"These Winscombes," Howat interrupted, "what about them? The Forsythes
are a common occurrence."

"David's been gone more than three years," she replied. "And you should
hear him talk; he's got a coat with wired tails in his box he's dying to
wear, but is afraid of his father. Oh, the Winscombes! Well, he's rather
sweet, sixty or sixty-five years old; very straight up the back, and
wears the loveliest wigs. His servant fixes them on a stand--he turns
the curls about little rolls of clay, ties them with paper, and then
bakes it in the oven like a pudding. The servant is an Italian with a
long duck's bill of a nose and quick little black eyes. He makes our
negro women giggle like anything. It's evident he is fearfully
impertinent. And, what do you think?--he hooks Mrs. Winscombe into her
stays! Mother says that that isn't anything, really; Mrs. Winscombe is a
lady of the court, and the most extraordinary happenings go on there.
You see, mother knows a lot about her family, and it's very good; she's
part Polish and part English, and her name's Ludowika. She's ages
younger than her husband.

"Myrtle doesn't like her,--" she stopped midway in her torrent of
information. "I came in to talk to you about Myrtle," she went on in a
different voice; "that is, partly about Myrtle, but more of myself and
of--"

"How long are the others going to stay?" he cut in heedlessly.

"I don't know," she again repressed her own desire; "perhaps they will
have to go back to Annapolis--don't ask me why--but they hope to sail
from Philadelphia in a week or so. She has marvellous clothes, and I
asked her if she would send me some babies from London. You know what
they are, Howat--little wooden dolls to show off the fashion; but she
made a harrowing joke, right in front of father and Mrs. Forsythe. The
things she says are just