“Children of that age are a nuisance!” returned Rosa, peevishly.  “And of all tiresome ones that I ever saw, Florence is the most trying.  She doesn’t talk after I bid her hold her tongue, but her big, solemn eyes see and her ears hear all that passes.  If there is one thing that pushes me nearer to the verge of distraction than another it is to have my own words quoted to me when I have forgotten that I ever uttered them.  And she—­literal little bore!—­is always pretending to take all that I say in earnest.  If I were to tell her to go to Guinea, it is my belief she would put on her bonnet, cloak, and gloves, pocket a biscuit for luncheon and a story-book to read by the way, and set out forthwith, asking the first decent-looking man she met in the street at what wharf she would find a vessel bound for Africa.”

Mrs. Sutton was obliged to laugh.

“She must be a truthful, sincere little thing!”

“Didn’t I tell you she is too outrageously literal and unimaginative?  Just let me give you an example of how she tires and vexes me.  One day, about a fortnight before I left home, she set her heart upon spending the whole of Saturday afternoon with me.  Her father objected, for he understands, if he does not sympathize with me, what a trial she is to flesh and spirit.  But I was moderately comfortable, and my nerves were less unruly than usual, so I said we would try and get on together.

“No sooner had he gone than the catechism commenced: 

“‘Now, mamma, what can I do to amuse you?’

“She talks like a woman of fifty.

“‘What should you propose if I were to leave it to you?’ I asked.

“‘I suppose,’ said my Lady Cutshort, ’that it would excite you too much to talk, so I had better read aloud.  What book do you prefer?’

“I named one—­a novel I had not finished—­and resigned myself to martyrdom.  She reads fluently—­her father says prettily; but the piping voice rasped my auriculars to the quick, and I soon stopped the exhibition.  Then we essayed conversation, but our range of themes was limited, and a dismal silence succeeded to a short dialogue.  By and by I told her that I was sleepy, hoping she would take the hint and leave my room.

“’Then, mamma, I will just get my work-basket, and sit here, as still as a mouse, and prevent all disturbance.’

“With that, she gets out her miniature thimble and scissors, and falls to work upon a pair of slippers she was embroidering for her father’s birthday present, sitting up, starched and prim as an old maid, her lips pursed, and her forehead gravely consequential.  I could not close my eyes without seeing her still, like an undersized nightmare, her hair smooth to the least hair, her dress neat to the smallest fold, stitching, stitching, the affected, conceited marmoset!

“At last I said: 

“’Put down your sewing, Florence, and look out of the window at the people going by.  You must be very tired.’