“I think so,” she smiled, carefully picking up a dropped stitch. “It’s my mother’s Christmas present. I knew if I didn’t start it early ’twouldn’t be done. I thought you wouldn’t mind my bringing it along this evening,” she apologized. “I can talk better when I’m knitting, except when I have to count, and that ain’t often. Mother’s been wanting a shawl for ever so long—it’s so cold in the country. ’T don’t look much yet.” She held up the narrow strip. “The stitch is pretty,” showing the intricate pattern.
“But this ain’t my news,” she laughed; “you didn’t guess where I’ve been! Sakes! you never would, so I’ll have to tell.”—She paused to emphasize her words.—“Out to the Flemings’!”
“Not Daphne Fleming’s?” Blue caught at the name excitedly.
“Yes! I knew you’d want to hear about it; that’s why I came up so early. I couldn’t hardly wait to eat my supper.
“You see, Miss Wallace—she’s head fitter—sometimes she goes out to fit a special customer, and Miss Fleming’s special. Now she’s got nervous prostration, and couldn’t come to be fitted. They say—that is, Louise Petrie does—it’s a love affair. I don’t know whether her father wouldn’t let her marry him, or what; but, anyway, he’s abroad somewhere, writing music and playing on the piano, and all that, and she’s just gone to pieces. Louise says she’s a musician, too, and they used to play and sing together at lots of parties and charity entertainments and church affairs, and so they got awfully well acquainted. Too bad! she’s a lovely girl. She had to lie down between gowns—she couldn’t have ’em all fitted right along. Oh, I wish you could see ’em!—such beautiful colors! I got a little snip of the blue silk one—why, I thought I put it under this wool! Oh, here ’t is! Ain’t that sweet? But you can’t imagine how it looks on. That pale blue, all embroidered in silver, is just the thing for her—makes her seem a regular princess! She is light, with almost golden hair, and such darling blue eyes! They say Daphne was just so before those rascals stained her skin. It hasn’t come off yet. And they dyed her hair, too. I don’t see how you ever knew her by that picture. She wasn’t round much—bobbed in once or twice. Her mother won’t hardly let her go out of her sight since she’s got her back. They all worship her!
“It’s so funny! I’d been planning to walk over past there—some Sunday afternoon I thought—ever since you found her; but I never had. And to think I should go right inside and see it all, and see them! I can’t hardly believe it! The house is just lovely, kind o’ like a palace, I guess. I said to myself as I was going up those stairs, I didn’t see how heaven could be any nicer—and I don’t! But I s’pose it will—sakes! don’t you get to wondering, sometimes, how it will look? Well, I ain’t hankering to find out. It’s pretty good here when you have work, and things come along as they have to-day. Oh, I am so glad Miss Wallace took me! She has to have somebody, you know, to baste and such. Gen’ally she takes Marie Étienne, but Marie’s sick—lucky for me! That sounds nice, don’t it? Of course, I do’ want anybody sick; but I do love to go into pretty houses! I never did much.”
Tillie Shook made good her statement that she could talk while she was knitting, for her tongue ran nimbly from the Flemings round among other patrons of Miss Meagher’s; but with rare delicacy of selection not once did it touch a bit of scandal or a disagreeable item. When the clock reached nine, she promptly rolled up her work.
“No late hours for me,” she laughed, declining Blue’s appeal to stay longer. “I do’ want to feel sleepy to-morrow morning when it’s breakfast time, do you, little man?” She laid her hand caressingly on Doodles’s head. “Oh, I’m so glad you got all that money!” she went on, with a comprehensive glance towards the others. “I wanted to come right up and tell you so; but, sakes! I’ve had to work ’most every evening since, and this is the first chance I’ve caught. I see you’ve got a new stove, and that looks as if you were going to stay on. I was so ’fraid you wouldn’t. I don’t see much of you, but I know you’re up here, and it’s a comfort.”
“We have decided not to move at present,” Mrs. Stickney told her. “Winter in The Flatiron is better than summer.”
“Yes, ’t is,” Miss Tillie agreed, “and I think you are sensible not to hustle to spend your money all at once. Why, one woman said to me, ‘Mrs. Stickney won’t have to do another stitch of work as long as she lives, with that thirty hundred dollars of theirs!’ I didn’t contradict her, but I kind o’ guessed you knew better. I’ve noticed money melts away pretty fast, if you don’t keep putting something on top of the pile.”