“Poor old girl! she had to wear paste, as lots of them do when they sell their jewels, my dear. Ah, they’re a beggarly set; when once they take to gambling they don’t seem to be fine ladies any longer. Back you go in the box.”
Snap.
Mrs Barclay had given the diamond necklet a brush and a rub while she was speaking; and then, taking up and opening a book, she handed it to Claire, bidding her look out for the Duchess of Duligne’s diamonds, and make a pencil tick against them.
This done and the morocco case replaced in the safe, another was taken up and opened, displaying a ruby and gold bracelet.
“There, I’ll put that on my wrist,” said Mrs Barclay, suiting the action to the word. “I won’t ask you to have it on, my dear. Some girls would want to, and wouldn’t like ’em taken off again. But you’re different to most people. Look at that now. Jewels always seem best against skin and flesh, but there, my gracious, how fat I am getting! Why it won’t snap round my wrist! Think of that.”
She laughed as merrily as a girl as she held up the glittering gems, and then started, with a loud “Lor’ bless me!”
For just then there was a tremendous double knock at the door; and, jumping up with wonderful activity for one of her size, she trotted across to the window.
“Why, it’s Cora Dean, my dear. No, no: don’t go,” she continued, as Claire rose hastily.
“I do not feel as if I could meet her, Mrs Barclay,” Claire pleaded.
“But she’s nobody, my dear, and she’ll be so hurt if you go, for I’m sure to let out that you were here just now.”