“Seen it before, haven’t you?” said Hatty, in her odious teasing way. “Yes, I thought I had better have it: mine is so shabby; and you are only a little Miss—it does not matter for you. Beside, you have Grandmamma to look after you. You shall have it again when I have done with it.”
I had to bite my tongue terribly hard, but I did manage to hold it. I only said, “Where are you staying, Hatty?”
“At Mrs Crossland’s, in Charles Street, where I shall be perfectly delighted to see my youngest sister.”
“Oh! Not with the Bracewells?”
“With the Bracewells, certainly. Did you suppose they had pitch-forked me through the window into Mrs Crossland’s drawing-room?”
“But who is Mrs Crossland?”
“A friend of the Bracewells,” said Hatty, with an air of such studied carelessness that I began to wonder what was behind it.
“Has Mrs Crossland daughters?” I asked.
“One—a little chit, scarce in her teens.”
“Is there a Mr Crossland?”