Rosaleen turned crimson.
“Oh, go along!” said Miss Mell. “It’ll do you good, Rosaleen. You can take care of yourself.”
“Of course she can!” said Enid. “All the little burgesses know how to do that. Lawrence, if you want to love Rosaleen, you’ll have to pay for her mushrooms all the days of your life!”
CHAPTER THREE
I
He took her by the hand and led her down the dark stairs, and flung open the door of his room ceremoniously. An immense room, which ran from the front to the back of the house. It was bare, plain, neat as a pin, no draperies, no artistic ornaments. And yet it had a fine air of luxury. There was a splendid wood fire in the grate, and before it stood a waggon with a silver tea service, brightly polished. Every one of the chairs, ranged severely against the walls, was rare and beautiful; the rug on the floor was a fine Chinese one. The walls were bare, not a single picture to be seen but the one he was completing, on an easel near the window.
He was wonderfully polite. He settled Rosaleen at a little table and brought her all the materials she required.
“Now, my dear child,” he said. “Just what is it you want to do?”
“Well,” said Rosaleen. “I’m afraid I’ve got to think about making money.”
“Ah! Who hasn’t? Very well, then, so you shall!”