“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 everybody asking her who she’s writing to.  She’s only seventeen.  She has the morning postman for a young man now, and probably one or two others that I don’t know of.  And she has money and she buys her own clothes.  She’s a very naughty, wicked girl, and I wish I was in her place.  She scorns me, naturally.  Who wouldn’t?”

Miss Ingate said not a word.  She merely sat with her hands in the lap of her spotted pale-blue dress, faintly and sadly smiling.

Audrey burst out: 

“Miss Ingate, what can I do?  I must do something.  What can I do?”