Matilda wondered a good deal at both mother and daughter, and she was amused too; Judy was so funnily impudent, and Mrs. Bartholomew so lazily authoritative. She nestled within Mrs. Laval's arm which encircled her, and felt safe, in the midst of very strange social elements. Mrs. Lloyd eyed her.
"How old is that child, Zara?"
"About Judith's age."
"No, she isn't, aunt Zara," said Judy. "She is about seven years and three months."
"And what are you?" said her aunt.
"Judith is over twelve," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "Surely that child is not so old?"
"Matilda is the shortest," said Mrs. Laval, looking from one to the other.
"And much the youngest looking," said Mrs. Lloyd. "How do you like New York, my dear?"
"She likes it," said Judy,—"if she only could have got a black satin cloak."
Matilda stared at her in mingled amazement and shame. Mrs. Laval laughed and hugged Matilda up a little closer.