“It doesn’t matter.... Tea, I think.... I wouldn’t believe it myself at first.”
“There’s some boiling water in the kitchen. It won’t take a minute.”
While Arnica busied herself about the tea, the Countess appraised the drawing-room and its contents with a calculating eye. They were depressingly modest. A few green rep chairs; one red velvet arm-chair; one other arm-chair (in which she was seated) in common tapestry; one table; one mahogany console; in front of the fire-place, a woolwork rug; on the chimney-piece, on each side of the alabaster clock (which was in a glass case), two large vases in alabaster fretwork, also in glass cases; on the table, a photograph album for the family photographs; on the console, a figure of Our Lady of Lourdes in her grotto, in Roman Plaster (a small-sized model)—there was not a thing in the room that was not discouraging, and the Countess felt her heart sink within her.
But after all they were perhaps only shamming poverty—perhaps they were merely miserly....
Arnica came back with the tea-pot, the sugar and a cup on a tray.
“I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, not at all!... I’d rather do it now—before; afterwards, I mightn’t be able to.”
“Well, then, listen!” began Valentine, after Arnica had sat down. “The Pope——”
“No, no, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!” exclaimed Madame Fleurissoire instantly, stretching out her hand in front of her; then, uttering a faint cry, she fell back with her eyes closed.
“My poor dear! My poor dear!” said the Countess, patting her on the wrist. “I felt sure it would be too much for you.”