Colonel Vaughan was again at Glanyravon, and Freda was in buoyant spirits. So, indeed, were her neighbours, the Nugents,—Miss Nugent in particular. She was to be of age in a few days, and grand preparations were making to celebrate the event.
On the morning on which we take up our Glanyravon narrative Miss Nugent is inflicting herself upon Miss Gwynne, who longs to tell her to go away, but is too polite to do so.
'You know, Freda,' she says, 'I have been longing to be of age for yearth. Mamma ath been tho thrict, and kept me tho clothe, that I never dared to thpeak to a gentleman. Now I can do ath I like.'
'And what will you have to say?' asked Freda, bluntly. 'I never hear you venture upon many topics, when you have an opportunity.'
'Oh, Freda! there are tho many thingth.'
'Just tell me one or two.'
'Let me thee. Ballth and contherth, and the opera when I go to London, and—and—muthic—'
'Is that all?'
'You are tho tirethome, Freda; of courthe there are other thingth, but one cannot think of them all at onthe. Every one ithent tho clever ath you. Colonel Vaughan thaid I talked quite enough for any young lady. Gentlemen didn't like ladieth who talked too much.'
'Indeed! Where was your mamma when he said that?'