"No—I’m the last," she replied.
"It doesn’t matter about the order. Please come in."
So Angelica followed her into a dark little paneled room, where an orange-shaded lamp glowed from the top of a piano, showing carved chairs, a soft, dull rug, a harp, and a suit of armour that glistened from a corner. It seemed an enchanted room, like a scene from a play, or a dream. Angelica really didn’t worry now about getting the position; it was worth while having come, just to have got inside of this house and this room.
The extraordinary lady sat down upon a divan and crossed her long legs. She had a pencil in her hand, and a little notebook, and she was most businesslike.
"Your name?" she inquired.
"Angelica Kennedy."
It wasn’t really Angelica’s name; Kennedy was her mother’s name, but they had both agreed that Donallotti was an impossible and unseemly patronymic, and might cause them to be taken for foreigners.
"Your age?"
"Nineteen."
Angelica felt terribly at a disadvantage, standing there to be questioned. She could hear her own voice, rather hoarse, and her vulgar accent. She was conscious of being ungloved, of being awkward and despised. She felt herself lost, she was in despair, she longed to run away and be done with this misery; but the lady went on pleasantly.