“Frozen,” answered Miss Bliss crossly.
“How can that be possible when I’ve done everything to make your room warm, spent all my winter earnings on coal?”
Miss Bliss cocked up her chin and replied:
“You must have had very poor business this winter.” Then to me very pointedly: “I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Drake, if you’d lend me your Navajo blanket, just for a few nights. It would look so bad for the house if I was found frozen to death in bed some morning.”
I agreed with alarmed haste, but Mrs. Bushey did not seem inclined for war. She smiled, murmuring, “Poor girl, you’re anemic,” and then, her eye lighting on Marie Antoinette’s mirror:
“Yes, Miss Harris’ll never get anywhere till she gets some color into her voice. It’s the coldest organ I ever heard. Would you mind if I took that mirror away? I have a new lodger, a delightful woman from Philadelphia, and I’ve no mirror for her—I can’t, I literally can’t, buy one with my finances the way they are. I suppose after this failure Miss Harris’ll be late with her rent.”
Thus Mrs. Bushey. When she had gone—taking the mirror—Miss Bliss lay flat before the fire and reviled her.
Miss Gorringe came next with the green satin dress. It was upon Miss Gorringe I was pinning my hopes. None of the others knew anything. Miss Gorringe, lifting out the dress with cold and careful hands, looked solemn:
“No, I can’t say it was a success. I’d like to because she’s certainly one of the most lovely people I’ve ever played for, but—” She depressed the corners of her mouth and slowly shook her head.
I sat up in my shawls and did scream: