“Mother! Such an idea! I am going to build.”
Mary, who was toasting a muffin to hotter crispness before the fire, turned a thin, flushed face at the announcement.
“Build what, dear?” asked Lady Paton; while Mary, certain in one moment of what Camelia was going to build, and why, silently put the ameliorated muffin on the little plate by her aunt’s side.
“Cottages. Model cottages. Beautiful cottages—really beautiful, you know—Elizabethan; beams, white plaster, latticed windows, deep window-seats, and the latest modernity in drains and bath-tubs.”
“Like Michael’s, you mean,” said Lady Paton, a little bewildered; “his are not Elizabethan, but the drains and bath-tubs are very good, I believe.”
Camelia’s face changed when her mother spoke of “Michael;” and Mary, watching as usual, compressed her lips tightly. The cottages were to be built for him—with him! Ah! he would come back. Camelia would keep him—for building cottages, for adoring her; while she, Mary, would be thrust further and further away.
“Yes, like his, only better than his. My tenants shall be the best housed of the county.” Camelia threw herself into an easy-chair, and fixed her eyes thoughtfully upon the fire.
“It will be very expensive, dear.”
“Never mind; we’ll economize.”
Camelia had not so looked or spoken for weeks, and Lady Paton smiled a happy acquiescence.