“Only I thought Terry would be more glad to see me,” replied Nora.
“More glad!” cried Linda. “I saw you hugging him as I ran downstairs. He let you. I don't know how any one could show gladness more. But come along; this is your room. It is next to Molly's and mine. Isn't it pretty? Molly and I chose it for you this morning, and we arranged those flowers. You will have such a lovely view, and that little peep of the Thames is so charming. I hope you will like your room.”
Nora entered one of the prettiest and most lovely bedrooms she had ever seen in her life. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything so cozy. The perfectly chosen furniture, the elegant appointments of every sort and description, the view from the partly opened windows, the view of winding river and noble trees—all looked rich and cultivated and lovely; and the Irish girl, as she gazed around, found suddenly a great, fierce hatred rising up in her heart against what she called the mere prettiness. She turned and faced Linda, who was watching her with curiosity in her somewhat small blue eyes Linda was essentially English, very reserved and quiet, very self-possessed, quite a young lady of the world. She looked at Nora as if she meant to read her through.
“Well, don't you think the view perfect?” she said.
“Have you ever been in Ireland?” was Nora's answer.
“Never. Oh, dear me! have you anything as pretty as this in Ireland?”
“No,” said Nora fiercely—“no.” She left the window, turned back, and began to unpin her hat.
“You look as if you did not care for your room.”
“It is a very, very pretty room,” said Nora, “and the view is very, very pretty, but I am tired to-night. I did not know it; but I am. I should like to go to bed soon.”
“So you shall, of course, after you have had supper. Oh, how awfully thoughtless of me not to know that you must be very tried and hungry! Molly and I are glad you have come.”