It was understood in the family, that while Lydia enjoyed life, Susan only endured it.  All the same she was a good deal spoilt.  She breakfasted in bed, which Mrs. Penfold never thought of doing; Lydia mended her stockings, and renewed her strings and buttons; while Mrs. Penfold spent twice the time and money on Susan’s wardrobe that she did on Lydia’s.  There was no reason whatever for any of these indulgences; but when three women live together, one of them has only to sit still, to make the others her slaves.  Mrs. Penfold found her reward in the belief that Susan was a genius and would some day astonish the world; Lydia had no such illusion; and yet it would have given her a shock to see Susan mending her own stockings.

Susan approached her now languidly, her hand to her brow.  Lydia looked at her severely.

“I suppose you have got a headache?”

“A little.”

“That’s because you will go and write poetry directly after lunch.  Why it would even give me a headache!”

“I had an idea,” said Susan plaintively.

“What does that matter?  Ideas’ll keep.  You have just to make a note of them—­put salt on their tails—­and then go and take a walk.  Indigestion, my dear—­which is the plain English for your headache—­is very bad for ideas.  What have you been doing to your collar?”

And Lydia took hold of her sister, straightening her collar, pinning up her hair, and generally putting her to rights.  When the operation was over, she gave a little pat to Susan’s cheek and kissed her.

“You can come with us to Threlfall, that would take your headache away; and I don’t mind the back seat.”

“I wasn’t asked,” said Susan with dignity.  “I shall go for a walk by myself.  I want to think.”

Lydia received the intimation respectfully, merely recommending her sister to keep out of the sun; and was hurrying into the house to fetch her hat when Susan detained her.

“Was that Lord Tatham who came just now?”

“It was.”  Lydia faced her sister, holding up the note from Lady Tatham.  “We are all to dine with them next week.”

“He has been here nearly every other day for a fortnight,” said Susan, with feminine exaggeration.  “It is becoming so marked that everybody talks.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” said Lydia defiantly.  “We are not a convent; and we can hardly padlock the gate.”

“You should discourage him—­if you don’t mean to marry him.”

“My dear, I like him so!” cried Lydia, her hands behind her, and tossing her fair head.  “Marrying!—­I hate the word.”

“He cares—­and you don’t,” said Susan slowly, “that makes it very unfair—­to him.”

Lydia frowned for a moment, but only for a moment.

“I’m not encouraging him, Susy—­not in the way you mean.  But why should I drive him away, or be rude to him?  I want to put things on a proper footing—­so that he’ll understand.”