"It is not so hard to live," said Clotilde; "but it is hard to be ladies. You understand--" she knit her fingers, dropped them into her lap and turned her eyes toward Aurora, who responded with the same motions, adding the crossing of her silk-stockinged ankles before the fire.
"No," said Aurora, with a scintillation of irrepressible mischief in her eyes.
"After all," pursued Clotilde, "what troubles us is not how to make a living, but how to get a living without making it."
"Ah! that would be magnificent!" said Aurora, and then added, more soberly; "but we are compelled to make a living."
"No."
"No-o? Ah! what do you mean with your 'no'?"
"I mean it is just the contrary; we are compelled not to make a living. Look at me: I can cook, but I must not cook; I am skillful with the needle, but I must not take in sewing; I could keep accounts; I could nurse the sick; but I must not. I could be a confectioner, a milliner, a dressmaker, a vest-maker, a cleaner of gloves and laces, a dyer, a bird-seller, a mattress-maker, an upholsterer, a dancing-teacher, a florist--"
"Oh!" softly exclaimed Aurora, in English, "you could be--you know w'ad?--an egcellen' drug-cl'--ah, ha, ha!"
"Now--"
But the threatened irruption was averted by a look of tender apology from Aurora, in reply to one of martyrdom from Clotilde.