“I think about seventy-five dollars,” I answered. Leslie laughed in a queer, unhappy way.
“Fancy it’s being as simple as that!” she murmured in an undertone.
“Not particularly simple, if she can’t get it,” I disagreed. “And poor Beata doesn’t believe she’ll ever be able to save it, and she loved him so. His name is Pietro La Nasa, and he is good looking. . . . I’ve seen him standing in the court—he knows Gino, who owns the brass shop down there—and he looks up so longingly—and you know how much Beata cries—”
“Yes, I know—”
Suddenly Leslie turned and clasped my hand between both of hers. “Look here, Jane,” she said, and with the prettiest look I had ever seen on her pretty face, “we’ll try to make this a real party. . . . My father sent me a little extra money—I had a dividend from something or other that has done well—and I’d love to spend it this way. . . . As you say, the crowd here probably haven’t had a good time for years—”
“And may not again for years—if ever—” I put in. Leslie nodded.
“We’ll do it,” she said, with lots of energy in her voice. “And you can ask Viola to help with the decorating and so on. . . . Understand, I want nothing to do with her after it is over. . . . I shall never forget the things she said to me about my Grandfather who had a little interest in a factory where they put up chow chow (he made his fortune in railroads) and about my having an inflated idea of my own importance. I have not, but I assure you, Jane, the Harris-Clarkes are nobodies—”
Well, I’d heard that all about a thousand times before, and I had got so that I was honestly bored—and for the first time in my life—whenever Viola started on the Parrishes, or Leslie about the Harris-Clarkes.
“I can’t give any presents,” I broke in.
“I’ll loan you any amount, dear,” said Leslie, quickly.