"Yes, but they are horrid rude children. I could not possibly play with them."
"Well, they are handfuls," said the stout lady. "I'm their mother, so I ought to know. You don't mind staying with me, then, love, do you?"
"I'd much rather go home," repeated Ermengarde.
"But you can't do that, my dear child, so there's no use thinking about it. Come, let us walk about and be cozy, and you tell me all about Glendower."
The old lady now drew Ermengarde's slim hand through her arm, and she found herself forced to walk up and down the greensward in her company.
Mrs. Burroughs was a downright sort of person. After her fashion she was kind to Ermie, but it never entered into her head to flatter her. She was a gossiping sort of body, and she wanted the child to recount to her all the tittle-tattle she knew about Glendower. Ermengarde had neither the power nor the inclination to describe the goings on at Glendower graphically. The stout lady soon got tired of her short answers, and began to survey her from head to foot in a critical and not too kindly spirit.
"Dear, dear!" she said, "what an overgrown poor young thing you are! But we must all go through the gawky age; we must each of us take our turn. Maisie is just through her bad time, but when she was fourteen, wasn't she a show just! You're fourteen, ain't you, my love?"
"Yes," said Ermengarde.
"Ah, I thought as much! I said so the moment I set eyes on you. I knew it by your walk. Neither fish, flesh nor good red herring is a maid of fourteen; she's all right once she passes seventeen, so you take heart, my love. I dare say you'll be a fine girl then."
"Mrs. Burroughs," interrupted Ermengarde, "I really must look for Flora. It is time for us to be going back. I must find her, and if she won't come, I'll go alone."