"My aunt means Robert Elsmere," said Mamie, in a laboured voice. "You may have heard it mentioned?"
"You mustn't expect Mr. Heriot to know much about it," said Mrs. Baines; "Mr. Heriot is so busy a gentleman that very likely he doesn't hear of these things. But I assure you, Mr. Heriot, the story seems to have been read a great deal; and what I say is, if dear Mamie can't be an actress, why shouldn't she write books, if she wants to do something of the sort? I wonder my brother didn't teach her to paint, with her notions and that—but, not having learnt, I say she ought to write books. That's the thing for her—a nice pen and ink, and her own home."
"I agree with you, Mrs. Baines. If she wants to write, she can do that in her own home."
"Not to compare it with such a profession as yours, Mr. Heriot," she said, "which, of course, is sensible and grave. But girls can't be barristers, and——"
"Will you open the window for me?" exclaimed Mamie; "it's frightfully warm, don't you think so?"
She stood there with her head thrown back, and closed eyes, her foot tapping the floor restlessly.
"Are you wishing you hadn't come?" she asked under her breath.
"Why?"
"One must suffer to be polite here."
"Aren't you a little unjust?" said Heriot deprecatingly.