She tidied the bed coverings, and before the other, languidly sighing, had brought some faded silks and embroideries from a box, Betty had made smooth the wondrous bed of the Latin Quarter to its intention of many-coloured lounge by day. Betty’s quick fingers were soon hiding all signs of bed under silk and satin. She arose, flushed from the tuckings-in, and the smoothings-out; and, taking an edge of battered silk pillow-case in her teeth, she slipped a pillow into it, shook it into place, and buttoned it down.
As the pillow disappeared into its crumpled once-gorgeous covering, the last sign of bed-hood passed out of the bed, and the sommier took on the splendour of an Eastern ottoman.
Betty laughed; sat down on the edge of the ottoman, and ran her eyes over the room.
Moll Davenant went to her, flung herself on the floor at her feet, and burst into tears.
Betty stroked her shoulder:
“Come, come, Molly,” said she—“we must get on. Don’t be stupid——”
The girl made a pitiful effort to stop her sobs.
Betty stood up; raised the poor girl to her feet; and led her to the stove:
“Come, Moll—we’ll talk as soon as the room is in order....”
Wherever Betty went, order resulted. The easel was swung into position and a sketch placed upon it—sketches were set out on a ledge that ran along the wall. Chairs were slewed into position. And soon there was but a little pile of stray impossible things in the middle of the room that had no ordered place therein. Betty completed the pile with a pair of dingy slippers.