The Sphynx, in spite of his stolidity, occasionally ventured upon some slight liberty when addressing me.

   I made a gay rejoinder, reflecting on the character of his own unmarried female relations, and entered the room.

   Philippa was sitting on the lofty, dark oak chimney-piece, with her feet dangling unconventionally over the fireplace. The snow, melting from her little boots and her hair, had made a large puddle on the floor.

   I came up and stood waiting for her to speak, but she kept pettishly swinging her small feet, as one who, by the action, means to signify displeasure.

   'Philippa,' I said sternly, 'speak to me.'

   'Well, here's a gay old flare-up!' cried Philippa, leaping from the chimney-piece, and folding her arms fiercely akimbo.

   'Who are you? Where's the baby?

    You

   a brother; you're a pretty brother! Is

    this

   the way you keep 'pointments with a poor girl? Who killed the baby? You did—you

    all

   did it.'

   Her words ran one into the other, as with an eloquence, which I cannot hope to reproduce (and indeed my excellent publisher would not permit it for a moment), she continued to dance derisively at me, and to heap reproaches of the most vexatious and frivolous nature on my head.

   'Philippa,' I remarked at last, 'you frivol too much.'

   A sullen look settled on her face, and, with the aid of a chair, she reseated herself in her former listless, drooping attitude upon the chimney-piece.

   On beholding these symptoms, on hearing these reproaches, a 

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