“Perhaps the tradespeople do that when some one new moves in,” Mrs. De Haaven suggested. “As a sort of sample. A boy just left it without a word.”
Rose shook her head.
“I don’t think that’s likely,” she said. “I’m afraid it must be a mistake. But—” She was busy cataloguing these household things in her mind. Salt—she hadn’t thought of that; and a box of bacon, and matches.
“I wish I’d kept house when Julian was alive,” said Mrs. De Haaven, “and not lived in hotels. Then I shouldn’t be so—useless.”
Rose gave her a little shake.
“Encumberer of the earth!” she said, smilingly. “The thing is—whether I dare to pretend to be as artless as you really are.”
“What do you mean, Rose?”
“I want to keep that basket!”
“Oh, Rose! When you think it’s a mistake!”
“Yes!” said Rose, firmly. “I’ll pay for it, of course, when I find out who it belongs to. But it’s such a wonderful collection. I want it! Here’s a package of pancake flour, and it tells you exactly how to make them. And the tin of coffee has directions on it, too. We could get on indefinitely, with pancakes and coffee.”