She spoke aloud to herself, a habit often indulged in by solitary children, and, opening a copy of Ivanhoe, screwed herself round into an attitude of still greater comfort, and set to work to read with that utter disregard of outer happenings which marks the true lover of books.
She was rather a pretty child; her features were good though the small face was pale and thin; her hair was fair and fluffy, and she had large hazel-grey eyes which looked so very dreamy sometimes that you could imagine their owner was apt to forget the commonplace surroundings of everyday life and live in a make-believe world that was all her own. Equally oblivious of the driving rain outside and the cosy scene within, Sylvia read on, so lost in her story that she did not even notice when the door opened and her mother entered the room.
"Why, here you are, darling! I thought I should find you in Father's study. I'm so sorry it's such a dreadful day for your party."
Sylvia put down her book with a slam, and dragging her mother into the big armchair, installed herself on her knee and administered a somewhat choking hug.
"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so glad!" she declared. "I didn't want a party, and I've been watching the rain all the time and hoping it would go on pouring."
"Sylvia! I thought you would be terribly disappointed. Don't you want to see your little friends?"
"Not very much."
"But why, sweetheart?"
Sylvia squeezed her mother's hand in her own and sighed, as if she found it rather difficult to explain herself.