Opposite sat a good-looking and well-dressed elderly lady. She had in hand some light fancy-work, and she cast an occasional glance—like Amy Smith—at the view. Her chief desire was to talk, but Patricia was not in the mood for talk, preferring her novel, and the aunt had to wait.
An English maid brought in letters; and Patricia turned hers over, with the above remark.
"Three whole sheets. Gracious! And I shall have to wade through them. Magda always finds out if I miss a single sentence."
"I thought you heard from her two days ago."
"Well, about that. The day her brother turned up. This is another!" Patricia exhibited the trio of sheets, holding them up, fan-wise. "She writes an atrocious hand. It will have to wait."
"Till you have finished your novel, I suppose." Mrs. Norman had been resenting her niece's determined pre-occupation with the book.
"Till I have finished my novel," assented Patricia, quite understanding, and not in the least disposed to give way. She always expected, as a matter of course, that everybody else should give way to her.
"You and this Miss—what is the name?—seem to be great friends. How long have you known her?"
"Magda Royston. Oh, about—since March. She is years younger than I am; but she adores me."
"And you like to be adored!" There was a suspicion of irony in the level tones of the elder lady. Patricia failed to detect it; but she could always talk of herself, and the subject was of sufficient interest to make her lay down the book.