“Well, then, can you read,—our English books? you know,—and a long while at a time? Pray, don’t say no.”
“Alas, mees, I know not to read the Ingleese, none. Ah, mees, I think now to my heart this is one meestake. You wish not me. You wish not one chambermaid.”
“You cannot know what I wish, my Pretty.” But the little mistress’s face was downcast and clouded. From under her sunny eyelashes she studied the long, slender, folded hands of poor “Pretty.” They were browned and hardened with rougher labors than hair-dressing, and embroidering, the mending of laces, or the tending of flowers.
She pointed at last to a door across the hall. “Your room, Pretty. Have your things brought up.”
“Felice,” corrected the soft Italian lips.
“No, Pretty,” persisted the little mistress, with a lovely smile.
This little girl of fourteen—Lulu Redfern—was mistress of many things: of a brown-stone mansion, of her papa, and of his immense wealth. She was almost like a fairy in her willfulness and in her power. Why might she not change her servant’s name if she chose?
While “Pretty” was gone, Mr. Redfern came back. “Papa,” said the mistress, “of what were you thinking? Pretty does not sew, does not understand flowers and pets, does not read, does not even dress hair!”
“Don’t she?” said papa, crestfallen. “Why, she looks as if she did.”
“Papa, did you ask at all?”