As Sylvia had brought but one white gown, she decided that the blue serge skirt and linen shirt-waist in which she had traveled would do for luncheon.  She put on a fresh collar and knotted a black scarf under it and went downstairs.

She ran down quickly, to have the meeting with the strange niece over as quickly as possible.  Mrs. Owen was not in sight, and her grandfather had not returned from town; but as Sylvia paused a moment at the door of the spacious high-ceilinged drawing-room she saw a golden head bent over a music rack by the piano.  Sylvia stood on the threshold an instant, shy and uncertain as to how she should make herself known.  The sun flooding the windows glinted on the bright hair of the girl at the piano; she was very fair, and her features were clear-cut and regular.  There was no sound in the room but the crisp rustle of the leaves of music as the girl tossed them about.  Then as she flung aside the last sheet with an exclamation of disappointment, Sylvia made herself known.

“I’m Sylvia Garrison,” she said, advancing.

They gravely inspected each other for a moment; then Marian put out her hand.

“I’m Marian Bassett.  Aunt Sally told me you were coming.”

Marian seated herself with the greatest composure and Sylvia noted her white lawn gown and white half-shoes, and the bow of white ribbon at the back of her head.  Sylvia, in her blue serge, black ribbons, and high shoes, felt the superiority of this radiant being.  Marian took charge of the conversation.

“I suppose you like to visit; I love it.  I’ve visited a lot, and I’m always coming to Aunt Sally’s.  I’m in Miss Waring’s School, here in this city, so I come to spend Sundays with Aunt Sally very often.  Mama is always coming to town to see how I’m getting on.  She’s terribly ambitious for me, but I hate school, and I simply cannot learn French.  Miss Waring is terribly severe; she says it’s merely a lack of application in my case; that I could learn but won’t.  When mama comes she takes me to luncheon at the Whitcomb and sometimes to the matinee.  We saw John Drew last winter:  he’s simply perfect—­so refined and gentlemanly; and I’ve seen Julia Marlowe twice; she’s my favorite actress.  Mama says that if I just will read novels I ought to read good ones, and she gave me a set of Thackeray for my own; but you can skip a whole lot in him, I’m here to state!  One of our best critics has said (mama’s always saying that) that the best readers are those who know how to skip, and I’m a good skipper.  I always want to know how it’s going to come out.  If they can’t live happy forever afterward I want them to part beautifully, with soft music playing; and he must go away and leave her holding a rose as a pledge that he will never forget.”

When Marian paused there was a silence as Sylvia tried to pick out of this long speech something to which she could respond.  Marian was astonishingly wise; Sylvia felt herself immeasurably younger, and she was appalled by her own ignorance before this child who had touched so many sides of life and who recounted her experiences so calmly and lightly.