“He’d do nicely for you, wouldn’t he, Rose?” said Annie Day.
A delicate pink came into Rosalind’s cheeks. She rose to leave the room.
“Mr Hammond is not in my style,” she said. “Much too severe and too learned. Good-night, girls. I must look over the notes of that wretched French lecture before I go to bed.”
Rosalind sought her own room, which was in another corridor. It was late now—past eleven o’clock. The electric light had been put out. She was well supplied with candles, however, and lighting two on the mantelpiece and two on her bureau, she proceeded to stir up her fire and to make her room warm and cosy.
Rosalind still wore the pretty light silk which had given her such an elegant appearance at the Elliot-Smiths’ that afternoon. Securing the bolt of her door, she pushed aside a heavy curtain, which concealed the part of her room devoted to her wardrobe, washing apparatus, etc. Rosalind’s wardrobe had a glass door, and she could see her petite figure in it from head to foot. It was a very small figure, but exquisitely proportioned. Its owner admired it much. She turned herself round, took up a hand-glass, and surveyed herself in profile, and many other positions. Then, taking off her pretty dress, she arrayed herself in a long white muslin dressing-robe, and letting down her golden hair, combed out the glittering masses. They fell in showers below her waist. Her face looked more babyish and innocent than ever as it smiled to its own fair image in the glass.
“How he did scowl at me!” said Rosalind, suddenly speaking aloud. “But I had to say it. I was determined to find out for myself how much or how little he cares for Maggie Oliphant, and, alas! there’s nothing of the ‘little’ in his affection. Well, well! I did not do badly to-day. I enjoyed myself, and I took a nice rise out of that disagreeable Miss Peel. Now must I look through those horrid French notes? Need I?” She pirouetted on one toe in front of the glass. The motion exhilarated her, and, raising her white wrapper so as to get a peep at her small, pretty feet, she waltzed slowly and gracefully in front of the mirror.
“I can’t and won’t study to-night,” she said again. “I hate study, and I will not spoil my looks by burning the midnight oil.”
Suddenly she clasped her hands, and the colour rushed into her cheeks.
“How fortunate that I remembered! I must write to mother this very night. This is Thursday. The auction is on Monday. I have not a post to lose.”