it? To be sure I do; the further off from you, my dear, the better. There, don’t think it necessary to beat me: accept my apologies. But what are sawflies? will they eat my coats? If not, they may have the room to themselves for what I care. We are not likely to be using it.’ ‘No, of course not. Well, what she calls sawflies are those reddish things like a daddy-longlegs, but smaller,1 and there are a great many of them perching about that room, certainly. I don’t like them, but I don’t fancy they are mischievous.’ ‘There seem to be several things you don’t like this fine morning,’ said her uncle, as he closed the door. Miss Oldys remained in her chair looking at the tablet, which she was holding in the palm of her hand. The smile that had been on her face faded slowly from it and gave place to an expression of curiosity and almost strained attention. Her reverie was broken by the entrance of Mrs. Maple, and her invariable opening, ‘Oh, Miss, could I speak to you a minute?’
1 Apparently the ichneumon fly (Ophion obscurum), and not the true sawfly, is meant.
A letter from Miss Oldys to a friend in Lichfield, begun a day or two before, is the next source for this story. It is not devoid of
