And she was not a red-haired nurse-maid.  Her hair was almost as fair as Gwendolyn’s own, and it framed her face in a score of saucy wisps and curls.  Her face was pretty—­full and rosy, like the face of Gwendolyn’s French doll.  Also it seemed certain—­even at such a distance—­that she had no freckles.  Gwendolyn waved both hands at her.  She threw a kiss back.

“Oh, thank you!” cried Gwendolyn, out loud.  She threw kisses with alternating finger-tips.

The nurse-maid shook the curtains at her.  Then—­they fell into place.  She was gone.

Gwendolyn sighed.

The next moment she heard voices in the direction of the hall—­first, Thomas’s; next, a woman’s—­a strange one this.  Disappointed, she turned to face the screening curtains.  But she was in no mood to make herself agreeable to visiting friends of Miss Royle’s—­and who else could this be?

She decided to remain quietly in seclusion; to emerge for no one except her mother.

A door opened.  A heavy step advanced, followed by the murmur of trailing skirts upon carpet.  Then Thomas spoke—­his tone that full and measured one employed, not to the governess, to Jane, to herself, or to any other common mortal, but to Potter, to her father and mother, and to guests.  “This is Miss Gwendolyn’s nursery,” he announced.

Beyond the curtains were persons of importance!

She shrank against the window, taking care not to stir the brocade.

“We will wait here,”—­the voice was clear, musical.

“Thank you.”  Thomas’s heavy step retreated.  A door closed.

There was a moment of perfect stillness.  Then that musical voice began again: 

“Where do you suppose that young one is?”

A second voice rippled out a low laugh.

Gwendolyn laughed too,—­silently, her face against the glass.  The fat old gentleman in the gray-haired house chanced to be looking in her direction.  He caught the broad smile and joined in.

“In the school-room likely,”—­it was the first speaker, answering her own inquiry—­“getting stuffed.”

Stuffed!  Gwendolyn could appreciate that.  She choked back a giggle with one small hand.

Someone else thought the declaration amusing, for there was another well-bred ripple; then once more that murmur of trailing skirts, going toward the window-seat; going the opposite way also, as if one of the two was making a circuit of the room.

Presently, “Just look at this dressing-table, Louise!  Fancy such a piece of furniture for a child! Ridiculous!”

Gwendolyn cocked her yellow head to one side—­after the manner of her canary.

“Bad taste.”  Louise joined her companion. “Crystal, if you please!  Must’ve cost a fabulous sum.”

One or two articles were moved on the dresser.  Then, “Poor little girl!” observed the other woman.  “Rich, but—­”

Gwendolyn puckered her brows gravely.  Was the speaker referring to her? Clasping her hands tight, she leaned forward a little, straining to catch every syllable.  As a rule when gossip or criticism was talked in her hearing, it was insured against being understood by the use of strange terms, spellings, winks, nods, shrugs, or sudden stops at the most important point.  But now, with herself hidden, was there not a likelihood of plain speech?