“Well, I shall envy you your quiet evening. I can’t ask Peter to spend his here in the bosom of my family. Yes, March, I think, unless I decide on making that round of visits in England; that would put it off for a month. I hope the ravens will fetch me a trousseau—for I don’t know who else will.”
“I shall have quite a lot by that time, Katherine. I haven’t heard from the dealer in London yet, but those two pictures will sell, I hope. And, at all events, with the other things, you know, I shall have about a hundred pounds.”
Katherine flushed a little when Hilda spoke of “other things,” and looked round at her sister.
“I hate to think of taking the money, Hilda.”
“My dear, why should you? Except, of course—the debts,” Hilda sighed deeply: “but I think on this occasion you have a right to forget them.” Katherine’s flush perhaps showed a consciousness of having forgotten the debts on many occasions less pressing.
“I meant, in particular, taking the money from you.”
Hilda opened her wide eyes to their widest.
“Kathy! as if it were not my pleasure! my joy! I am lucky to be able to get it for you. Can you get a trousseau for that much, Kathy?”
“Well, linen, yes. I don’t care how little I get, but it must be good—good lace. I shall manage; I don’t care about gowns, I can get them afterwards. Peter, I know, will be an indulgent husband.” A pleasant little smile flickered across Katherine’s lips. “He is a dear! I only hope, pet, that you will be able to hold on to the money. Don’t let the duns worry it out of you!” The weary, pallid look came to Hilda’s face.
“I’ll try, Kathy dear. I’ll do my very best.”