“I am a queen now, Jim, and I think I do know what it is to be poor. When you told me all your bitter experiences, I felt them as keenly, it seemed to me, as if I had passed through them myself. I believe that God sent us this intimate knowledge of how the poor suffer in order that we might sympathize with and help them.” Then Adelaide told him of the tenement and described each of the families. Some of them Jim had known in that other life which has been related in a former volume, and he inquired eagerly for the inventor, Stephen Trimble, and for the Rumples, and others. Adelaide told him, too, of the two turtle-doves, and of the sad death of Miss Cohens, and how the Terwilligers were soon to be established in one of the best suites. This last information pleased Jim very much.
“I like Terwilliger,” he said. “He is so funny; he drops all his h’s, and calls everything ‘bloomin’.’ Buttertub is a ‘bloomin’ fool,’ and Stacey is a ‘bloomin’ swell,’ and when I got hurt he said it was a ‘bloomin’ shame,’ and Ricos was a ‘bloomin’ cad,’ and the fellows ought to have made a ‘bloomin’ row’ about it.”
That evening it happened that Mrs. Roseveldt was to give a musicale, and as Jim was feeling very bright, Adelaide had consented to take part. She was a creditable performer upon the violin, and had decided upon a romance by Rubenstein. She came to the school early in the afternoon for her music, and, to give her more of a visit with us, Mrs. Roseveldt had suggested that she should remain until after dinner, promising to send the carriage for her. Stacey was expected to call that afternoon and would keep Jim from being lonely.
We were all delighted to have Adelaide with us once more, for we had missed her greatly.
I was painting in the studio, and Professor Waite had just told me that it was all for the best that I could not probably go to Europe in vacation.
“You are not ready for it,” he said. “You will profit far more by European instruction after a year of thorough training in the Art Students’ League. I would advise you to attend it next winter. Our disappointments are often blessings in disguise. Providence keeps the things for which we are not prepared, saved on an upper shelf for us until we deserve them.”
As he said this, a joyful hub-bub rang out in the Amen Corner, led by a wild, Comanche shriek from Polo, who happened to be in the corridor: “Miss Adelaide’s come! Glory! Oh, glory!”
Professor Waite flushed and paled, took two steps impulsively toward the door, and then sat down before my easel, and began insanely to spoil a sky with idiotic dabs of green paint. I wondered whether Providence was saving up Adelaide until he deserved her. If so, the shelf was for the present a very high one.
To my surprise, Adelaide tapped at the studio door a moment later. She greeted Professor Waite cordially. “I am so glad to find you,” she said, “for I want to impose upon you for a little help.”
Professor Waite beamed.