“Asleep on half a dozen cushions and among blankets on the floor of my room. She has had a bath and been wrapped again in that red silk. She’ll have to live in it till I can get her some more clothes. I’ve burnt the others, and put the hat, coat, and boots in the dust hole. In spite of her poor little attempts at cleanliness, one never knows.”
“One does not,” said Barnabas grimly, thinking of the house she had come from. “May I smoke?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said Miss Mason. She liked the scent of tobacco in her studio. She felt it to be part and parcel of Bohemia.
There was a long silence.
Miss Mason was thinking of the child lying asleep in the next room. She had an odd feeling that the Fates had sent Pippa directly to her that she might in a way atone to herself for her own lonely childhood by making this morsel of humanity happy. She had already begun to weave the dreams that are woven by fairy godmothers.
And Barnabas’ thoughts had again travelled back to his friend Kostolitz, and the thoughts made his eyes grave and a little sad.
“I am going over to Paris to-morrow,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Yes?” queried Miss Mason.
“You know that oil-portrait that hangs by my mantelpiece?” he asked. “Doesn’t a likeness strike you?”
Miss Mason looked up. She felt suddenly a little anxious.