"I will call you whatever you please," I said, "but I cannot accept any of your pretty things, for you did not buy them for me."
"No, because I did not know you when I bought them; but I meant to give a good many away. Oh, very well, Miss Darracott, I see you do not mean to be friendly with Paulina Dicks!"
So in the end I had to yield, and accepted a little brooch of Florentine mosaic, which I have to this day. And I promised that I would call her Paulina.
"Paulina Adelaide is my name," she said. "No one calls me Pollie except my father. And one other person," she added, as an afterthought.
Presently she asked me if I thought Mrs. Lucas would like to see her collection of pretty things. I said I was sure that she would, and ran to call my aunt. When aunt came, Paulina exhibited everything afresh, and described in an amusing fashion how she had made some of her purchases. The dressing-bell rang ere aunt had seen everything. Then their owner plaintively observed that she did not know how she should get them all into their boxes again. Unpacking was much easier than packing, she feared. Thereupon aunt and I pledged ourselves to help her after dinner, with the result that we were busy in her room till nearly midnight.
Paulina came to the dinner-table wearing a set of quaint cameo ornaments, which excited Mr. Faulkner's attention. It appeared that he knew something of cameos. He had passed through Italy on his way home from India, and he and the Americans were soon comparing their experiences of Vesuvius, Sorrento, and Capri, or discussing the sights of Rome.
I listened in silence, feeling out of it all and rather discontented as I compared Paulina's exquisitely-made Parisian frock with my own homely white blouse. I must have looked bored when suddenly I became aware that Alan Faulkner was observing me with a keen, penetrating glance that seemed to read my very thoughts.
"We are wearying Miss Nan with our traveller's talk," he said. "She has yet to learn the fascination of Italy. But the time will come, Miss Nan."
"Never!" I said almost bitterly. "I see not the least chance of such good fortune for me, and therefore I will not let my mind dwell on the delights of travel!"
The look of wonder and regret with which Alan Faulkner regarded me made me instantly ashamed of the morose manner in which I had responded to his kindly remark. I heartily wished that I could recall my words, or remove the impression they had created.