"Oh," she began, "is that where you usually sit?" 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 while the visitor
continued to look about her. "You seem to have plenty of other
rooms; they're in rather better condition. But everything's
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 upstairs; she didn't seem at all
intelligent. You had better tell her it's no matter." And then,
since the girl stood there hesitating and wondering, this unexpected
critic said to her abruptly: "I suppose you're 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'm your Aunt
Lydia, but I'm not at all crazy: I haven't a delusion! And which of
the daughters are you?"
"I'm the youngest of the three, and my name's Isabel.
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