XXIII.—Two Not of a Kind
“Yes, they are very pleasant rooms,” Juliet admitted, with the air of one endeavouring to be polite. She sat upon a many-hued divan, and glanced from the blue-and-yellow wall-paper to the green velvet chairs, the dull-red carpet and the stiff “lace” curtains. “You get the afternoon sun, and the view opposite isn’t bad. The vestibule seemed to be well kept, and I rang only three times before I made you hear.”
“The janitor promised to fix that bell,” said Judith hastily. “Oh, I know the colour combinations are dreadful, but one can’t help that in rented rooms. Of course our things look badly with the ones that belong here. But as soon as we can we are going to move into a still better place.”
“Going to keep house?”
“No-o, not just yet.” Judith hesitated. “You seem to think there’s nothing in the world to do but to keep house.”
“I can’t see why. A girl doesn’t need to assume all the cares of life the minute she marries. Why can’t she keep young and fresh for a while?”
Juliet glanced toward a mirror opposite. “How old and haggard I must be looking,” she observed, with—it must be confessed—a touch of complacency. The woman who could have seen that image reflected as her own without complacency must have been indifferent, indeed.
“Of course, you manage it somehow—I suppose because Anthony takes such care of you. But you wait till five years more have gone over your head, and see if you’re not tired of it.”