“How hot it looks down there!” cried Goneril.
“How hot it feels!” echoed Miss Hamelyn, rather grimly.
“Yes, I am so glad you can get away at last, dear, poor old auntie.” Then, a little later, “Won’t you tell me something about the old ladies with whom you are going to leave me?”
Miss Hamelyn was mollified by Goneril’s obedience.
“They are very nice old ladies,” she said; “I met them at Mrs. Gorthrup’s.” But this was not at all what the young girl wanted.
“Only think, Aunt Margaret,” she cried, impatiently, “I am to stay there for at least six weeks, and I know nothing about them, not what age they are, nor if they are tall or short, jolly or prim, pretty, or ugly, not even if they speak English!”
“They speak English,” said Miss Hamelyn, beginning at the end. “One of them is English, or at least Irish: Miss Prunty.”
“And the other?”
“She is an Italian, Signora Petrucci; she used to be very handsome.”
“Oh!” said Goneril, looking pleased. “I’m glad she’s handsome, and that they speak English. But they are not relations?”