"I want to do the right thing, so I'm going to give you a whole month's notice. Bill has rented some rooms. What do you think of that!"
I told her gently, but firmly, what I suspected concerning it.
She brought out his letter for proof.
"He's to pay for the rooms, and I'm to send him the money for the furniture. He'll get whatever kind I like. You've always been kind to me," she added, "but I think you've got a hard heart as to Bill."
Well, perhaps I had.
The month passed very happily. As his letters came, she would tell me what he had bought.
"It's a bureau with a marble top,—secondhand, Second Avenue,—but as good as new. Besides, some people would rather have antiques. And I do like bureaus!"
Then it would be a table that set her singing her queer ragtime songs. Once there came word of three cushioned chairs. One letter announced a looking-glass. And once, as I went into the kitchen suddenly, there was Mamie, one arm above her head, the other holding her skirt, dancing for Anne to see, and to Anne's inexpressible wonder and delight. She sat there in her tub, leaning forward, beaming, fascinated, and holding tight to its sides as though we might all be personages in a fairy-tale, and she and the tub might any moment fly away.
At sight of me, Mamie stopped, flushing pink as a rose, apologetic, but unfeignedly happy.
"I couldn't help it! He's bought me a chiffoneer!"