but youth—our precious, golden, unreturning youth. I want to do things and see the world."
"Please, miss," said a maid at the door, "the post is in, and you're both to go and see Her. I hope it ain't bad trouble," she added sympathetically; "and afterwards, if there's anything I can do . . . There's something up, miss. There was a letter for you, and she kep'it back at breakfast—and one for you, miss, too. It isn't safe to let 'em write by post, it really isn't."
"To let who write, Gladys?"
"The young men as you walks out with," Gladys explained kindly. "At least, of course you young ladies don't walk out, being kept alive in a cage, so to speak, but I expect it's the same at heart. I gets the confectioner's girl to take in my letters," she added with simple pride. "It's best to be on the safe side in a house full of old cats like this here. Is he dark or fair, miss—yours I mean?" she suddenly asked Jane.
"My what?"
"Your young man."
"I don't know," said Jane. "I haven't got a young man yet."
"Then the letter can't be from him," said Gladys, with irresistible logic.
"No, it certainly can't. But it might be from somebody else. In fact it must. I wonder how long she means to keep us in suspense? When are we to go and see her? After dinner?"
"Oh no. She is looking forward to the blow-up she's getting ready for you to give her an appetite for dinner. Do you know, miss, I shouldn't wonder if it was a nonnymous letter from a true friend, or 'one who has only seen you in church but wants to know you better,' or 'a respectable admirer who picked up your umbrella.' Thursday week as you got off the tram. Oh, I saw him, miss. It was my afternoon out."
"I always enjoy your conversation, Gladys," said Lucilla
