A Rolling Stone by B. M. Croker

Miss Susan preceded Owen, and as he stalked along the great flagged passage, he noted her trim, light figure, quantity of well-dressed, grizzled hair, and brisk, tripping walk, and he made up his mind -- although they had not as yet exchanged a word -- that he liked her immeasurably the better of the sisters! How _could_ Leila say they were "dear old things! " Miss Parrett was neither more or less than an ill-bred, purse-proud little bully. On their way out he caught sight, through open doors, of other rooms with mullioned windows, and more vague efforts at refurnishing and embellishment.

"We are not long here," explained Miss Susan, reaching for her hat off a peg, and they crossed a vestibule opening into a huge enclosed yard, "though we lived here as children; it's only lately we have come back to our own -- or rather my sister's own," she corrected, with a little nervous laugh. "The Manor has been occupied by a farmer for twenty-five years, and was really in a dreadful state of neglect: the roof and upper floors dropping to pieces, and everything that should have been painted was neglected, and everything that should not have been painted, _was_ painted."