“And she says she is coming over to see me one of these days, aunt,” said Lucy, with a droll expression, half arch, half rueful. She added timidly, “There is no objection to that, is there?”
“None whatever, if she does not make a practice of it; only mind, these old servants are the greatest pests on earth.”
“I remember now,” said Lucy thoughtfully, “Mrs. Wilson was always very fond of me. I cannot think why, though.”
“No more can I,” said Mr. Hardie, dryly; “she must be a thoroughly unreasonable woman.”
Mr. Hardie said this with a good deal of grace and humor, and a laugh went round the table.
“I mean she only saw me at intervals of several years.”
“Why, Lucy, what an antiquity you are making yourself,” said Fountain.
But Lucy was occupied with her puzzle. “She calls me her nursling,” said Lucy, sotto voce, to her aunt, but, of course, quite audibly to the rest of the company; “her dear nursling;” and says, “she would walk fifty miles to see me. Nursling? hum! there is another word I never heard, and I do not exactly know—Then she says—”
“Taisez-vous, petite sotte!” said Mrs. Bazalgette, in a sharp whisper, so admirably projected that it was intelligible only to the ear it was meant for.
Lucy caught it and stopped short, and sat looking by main force calm and dignified, but scarlet, and in secret agony. “I have said something amiss,” thought Lucy, and was truly wretched.