As she pulled the cats to and fro and tumbled over them and among them, on sofa and hearthrug, she kept up an incessant, excitable chatter; a chatter that struck Wolf’s mind as resembling, in some odd manner, a substance rather than a sound , for it seemed to supply a part of the warm, dusky atmosphere in which she played, and indeed seemed to require no vocal response from the other persons in the room. It was like the swirl of a swollen brook in a picture of Nicolas Poussin, in the foreground of which a young brown goatherd plays forever with his goats.

“Olwen Smith!” broke in Miss Gault, when she and Wolf had seated themselves, after their first exchange of greetings, and he had hurriedly given her a description of Mr. Urquhart and Mr. Urquhart’s library. “Olwen Smith!”

The little girl got up from the floor in a moment, and came and stood by her friend’s knee.