"Not to me. He has but just come in. You must be mistaken."
"Look here. I was away for a short while from the party, seeing after the horse I lamed the other day, and when I got back, Barley had vanished: they thought he had gone to look after me. Perhaps he had in one sense, the great simpleton—Halloa! who's that?" He broke off, seeing me for the first time, as I stood partly within the shade of the window-curtain.
"It is little Anne Hereford. She has come a week before I expected her. Anne, come forward, and let Mr. Heneage make love to you. It is a pastime he favours."
He lifted me up by the waist, looked at me, and put me down again.
"A pretty little face to make love to. How old are you?"
"Eleven, sir."
"Eleven!" he echoed, in surprise. "I should have taken you for nine at the very most. Eleven!"
"And eleventeen in sober sense," interposed Selina, in her lightest and most careless manner. "I suppose children are so who never live with brothers and sisters. You should hear her talk, George! I tell her, her mamma and nurse have made an old woman of her."
"Dare I venture to your presence in this trim, Mrs. Edwin Barley?"
The speaker was the Rev. Mr. Martin, who came slowly in, pointing to his attire.