Sylvia’s mother was a widow who lived in a commodious house in London and who was much admired, and whom we will call Mrs Walker because it was not her name. Though she was rather proud of Sylvia in a way, because she was a pretty little girl with hair that curled naturally, she never bothered about her very much owing to her Society engagements. She never, for example, made her laugh with the business of the little pigs, or pretended to eat her, beginning with the feet, and she never bored people by exhibiting her little frocks to show how she was growing out of them; in fact, she never saw her at all except sometimes when she spared a moment to run upstairs before going to dinners and dances and the like. But she provided a capable nurse called Norah who was skilled in all things necessary for young ones, including interesting tales, and this worked finely until Norah had to go away and marry a young man in the sausage business. The new nurse who came had her own society engagements to attend to (though not such classy ones) and could not spare very much time for Sylvia.
One day Sylvia got wet through in the park and the nurse (Gwendoline) forgot to change her things, so that she got ill. She got more and more ill and the doctor was sent for, but he was absolutely rude to Mrs Walker because he had not been sent for before and this upset her as she was not accustomed to rudeness. But what made her more upset was the sight of a dowdy, middle-aged woman who had got in somehow and was sitting by Sylvia’s bed, and when she asked her what she was doing there she got no answer but a snort, so she went away. And half an hour later there was a real trouble, for the dowdy person and Sylvia were missing.
There was a good deal of excitement because there had been one or two cases of this kind lately, and there were head-lines in the papers about it; but nothing more happened and the little bed was empty for keeps. In time—that is to say, in three weeks—the matter had blown over, and Mrs Walker went into mourning and looked so absolutely sweet and lovely that Sir Samuel Gollop (Biscuits) asked for her hand and got it and serve him right, and she is now my Lady Gollop, with a house in one of the best parts and two cars and a Pekinese which has taken a prize. But no Sylvia, never again.
And Sylvia was learning to play a new kind of water-polo in which seals take part and was fast forgetting all about her former life except the tales Norah used to tell her.