"Why, you told us to look for them, didn't you, Mother?" replied her astonished and literal daughter. "Roger was with me. It was perfectly all right."
"I simply meant you to notice from the outside any attractive houses that advertised lodgings," explained Mrs. Thayne. "Well—" she ended helplessly, "I suppose there's no harm done."
"Why, no," Frances agreed. "What could happen? Let me tell you about them. We took the baby cars and got off at St. Aubin's because that especial train didn't go any farther. It's lovely there, Mother, and plenty of lodgings to let. We walked along and saw one house that looked pleasant, so we went up and rang and a maid showed us into a parlor. We knew right off we didn't want to come there, because the place was so dark and stuffy and there were fourteen hundred family photographs and knit woolen mats and such things around. I was going to sit down but just as I got near the chair,—it was rather dark, you see,—something said 'Hello!' and there was a horrid great parrot sitting on the back of the chair. I jumped about a foot."
"You screamed, too," said Roger.
"I may have exclaimed," admitted Frances judicially. "It was not a scream. If I had yelled, you would have known it. Well, a messy old woman came who called me 'dear,' but when I said I didn't believe my mother would care for the rooms, she got huffy and said she was accustomed to rent her rooms to ladies, only she pronounced it lydies.
"We left that place," went on Frances, paying no attention to the look of silent endurance on her mother's face, "and walked some distance without seeing anything we liked. But suddenly we came to a tiny street going down to the sea. There were only six houses and one had a card in the window. They faced the bay and just big rocks were on the other side of the street. Now, listen."
Frances went on dramatically. "The house with the card was the dearest thing, all cream-color and green, with a pink rambler rose perfectly enormous, growing 'way up to the eaves, and a rough roof of red tiles and steep gables. The windows were that dinky kind that open outward and had little bits of panes. Everything was clean as clean, the steps and the curtains and the glass. While we were looking, the door opened and a girl came out. She was about my age, Mother, but so pretty, with gray eyes and yellow hair and such a complexion. I'd give anything to look like her."
Frances shook her head with disapproval over her own brown hair and eyes. To be sure the one was curly and the others straightforward and earnest, while her gipsy little face and figure were considered attractive by most people and by those who loved her, very satisfactory indeed.
"Well, this girl came out and we sort of smiled at each other and I asked if that card meant that there were rooms to let. I told her you were seasick, and at the hotel, and my brother and I saw the card and we were looking for lodgings and all the rest, you know. She said yes, there were rooms and she'd call Sister.
"Sister came and she was a love, tall and sweet and just beautiful, only she looked sad and wore a black dress. The younger girl went away but Sister showed us the rooms and they are just what we'd like, I'm sure. There wasn't any messy wool stuff nor ugly vases,—I forgot to mention that in the other place there were eight pair of vases on the mantel, truly, for Roger counted them. These rooms were clean and rather bare, with painted floors and washable rugs and fresh curtains and flowers, just one vase in each room and a clear glass vase at that. The beds had iron frames and good springs and mattresses, for I punched them to see. Aren't you proud to think I knew enough to do that?" Fran interrupted her story.