apartment was presently occupied by a lady who paused there and looked very hard at our heroine. She was a plain, elderly woman, dressed in a comprehensive waterproof mantle: she had a sharp, but not an unpleasant, face.
"Oh," she said, "is that where you usually sit?" And she looked about at the heterogeneous chairs and tables.
"Not when I have visitors," said Isabel, getting up to receive the intruder.
She directed their course back to the library, and the visitor continued to look about her. "You seem to have plenty of other rooms; they are in rather better condition. But everything is immensely worn."
"Have you come to look at the house?" Isabel asked. "The servant will show it to you."
"Send her away; I don't want to buy it. She has probably gone to look for you, and is wandering about up-stairs; she didn't seem at all intelligent. You had better tell her it is no matter." And then, while the girl stood there, hesitating and wondering, this unexpected critic said to her abruptly, "I suppose you are one of the daughters?"
Isabel thought she had very strange manners. "It depends upon whose daughters you mean."
"The late Mr. Archer's— and my poor sister's."
"Ah," said Isabel, slowly, "you must be our crazy Aunt Lydia!"
"Is that what your father told you to call me? I am your Aunt Lydia, but I am not crazy. And which of the daughters are you?"
"I am the youngest of the three, and my name is Isabel."
"Yes; the others are Lilian and Edith. And are you the prettiest?"
