“Peel,” faltered Priscilla.
“When Miss Peel unpacks her trunk, she’ll make the room look very pretty, too.”
“She can’t,” said Miss Day, in a tragic voice; “she never could make the room look as it used to—not if she was to live till the age of Methuselah. Of course you’ll improve it, Miss Peel; you couldn’t possibly exist in it as it is now.”
“I can tell you of a capital shop in Kingsdene, Miss Peel,” said Miss Marsh, “where you can buy tables and chairs, and pretty artistic cloths, and little whatnots of all descriptions. I’d advise you to go to Rigg’s! he’s in the High Street, Number 48.”
“But Spilman has much the most recherché articles, you know, Lucy,” interposed Miss Day. “I’ll walk over to Spilman’s to-morrow with you, if you like, Miss Peel.”
Before Priscilla had time to reply there was again a knock at the door, and this time Nancy Banister, looking flushed and pretty, came in.
She took in the scene at a glance: numbers of girls making themselves at home in Priscilla’s room, some seated on her trunk, some on her bureau, several curled up in comfortable attitudes on her bed, and she herself standing, meek, awkward, depressed, near one of the windows.
“How tired you look, Miss Peel!” said Nancy Banister.
Priscilla smiled gratefully at her.
“And your trunk is not unpacked yet?”