“It will not be for long,” said Percy Roden.
And his sister turned and looked at him with a sudden gravity.
“Ah!” she said.
“No; I have been thinking that it will be better for us to move into The Hague—Park Straat or Oranje Straat.”
Dorothy turned and faced him now. There was a faint, far-off resemblance between these two, but Dorothy had the better face—shrewder, more thoughtful, cleverer. Her eyes, instead of being large and dark and rather dreamy, were grey and speculative. Her features were clear-cut and well-cut—a face suggestive of feeling and of self-suppression, which, when they go together, go to the making of a satisfactory human being. This was a woman who, to put it quite plainly, would scarcely have been held in honour by our grandmothers, but who promised well enough for her possible granddaughters; who, when the fads are lived down and the emancipation is over and the shrieking is done, will make a very excellent grandmother to a race of women who shall be equal to men and respected of men, and, best of all, beloved of men. Wise mothers say that their daughters must sooner or later pass through an awkward age. Woman is passing through an awkward age now, and Dorothy Roden might be classed among those who are doing it gracefully.
She looked at her brother with those wise grey eyes, and did not speak at once.
“Oranje Straat and Park Straat,” she said lightly, “cost money.”
“Oh, that is all right!” answered her brother, carelessly, as one who in his time has handled great sums.
“Then we are prosperous?” inquired Dorothy, mindful of other great
schemes which had not always done their duty by their originator.
“Oh yes! We shall make a good thing out of this Malgamite. The labourer is worthy of his hire, you know. There is no reason why we should not take a better house than this. Mrs. Vansittart knows of one in Park Straat which would suit us. Do you like her—Mrs. Vansittart, I mean?”