"They are girls of lively disposition," Mrs. Delansing continued. "Their mother—your Cousin Amelia—has been something of an invalid,—I make allowance for all this, and yet there are things—" She broke off; then, after a moment, went on again. "Violette made me a visit last winter, here, in this house. She was engaged in what she called fancy work, for a bazaar (most objectionable things to my mind), that was to be held in the neighbourhood. One day she came to Hobson—I was unwell at the time—and said,—Hobson remembers her very words:
"'Oh, Hobson, see what a lovely thing I have made out of a bit of old rubbishy lace that was in this bureau drawer.'
"Hobson looked, and turned pale to her soul, as she expressed it in her homely way. She recognised the pattern of the lace.
"'I cut out the flowers,' said the unhappy girl, 'and applied them'—she said 'appliquéd' them, a term which I cannot reproduce—'applied them to this crimson satin ribbon; it will make a lovely picture-frame; so unique!'
"She had—she had taken a piece of my old Mechlin, which Hobson had just done up and had laid in the drawer till I should feel strong enough to examine and approve its appearance,—she had taken this and cut it to pieces, cut out the flowers, to sew them— There are things that have to be lived through, my dear. It was weeks before Hobson felt able to tell me what had occurred. I was in danger of a relapse for several weeks, though she did it as delicately as possible,—good Hobson. I did not trust myself to speak to Violette in person; I sent for her mother, and told her of the occurrence. She—she—laughed!"
There was silence for some minutes. Hildegarde wanted to show the sympathy that she truly felt, for she liked lace, and the idea of its stupid destruction filled her with indignation. She ventured to lay her hand timidly on the old lady's arm, but Mrs. Delansing took no notice of the caress; she sat bolt upright, gazing out of the window with stony eyes. Presently she said:
"You may ring for Hobson, if you please. I feel somewhat shaken, and will have my malted milk in my own room. Another evening, I may ask your patience in a game of backgammon,—you have been taught to play backgammon? Yes; but not to-night. You will find books in the library, and the piano does not disturb me. Good-night, my niece."
She shook hands with Hildegarde, and departed on Hobson's arm, looking old and feeble, though holding herself studiously erect. Hildegarde went to her room, feeling half sad, half amused, and wholly homesick. She greeted the china sailor with effusion, as if he were a friend of years. "Oh, you dear fellow!" she said. "You are young, aren't you? and happy, aren't you? Well, mind you stay so, do you hear?" She nodded vehemently at him, and took up her book, to read till bedtime.