"Taxes," ejaculated the Sculptor Girl bluntly. "Interest! You can't forget 'em or we'll all be back in the gutter you know—So that's settled—to-morrow morning at nine—I'll have a good fire—you won't mind awfully, will you, if I hang wet cheese cloth around you—?"
She was trying to keep the excitement out of her voice but her eyes were sparkling. She no longer saw Felicia, she only saw Pandora—the Pandora of her dreams!
But all the same, after she'd lighted her cigarette in her own room she drew a long breath and pottered about her few possessions until she found something pawnable.
In the shop she bargained coolly enough with the pawn-broker, pocketed the money she fought for and as she was leaving stopped to gaze casually at the motley array of things in the dusty case. She stared unbelievingly at a quaint mahogany box, warily priced two or three other things and finally asked "how much for the damaged writing case?" Ten minutes later she fled with it under her arm. It didn't look like much. It was quite empty and it would make a nice box for Pandora to be opening. But over and over her heart was pounding,
"It's the same Bee on it that's on her brushes—it's the same Bee she has said was on the silver—it's—oh, if it only could be hers!"
She burst in upon the Poetry Girl (now warm and snug in some of Dulcie's own garments) and Felicia sitting by the nursery fire. They were having a friendly little party. Felicia introduced the two girls with the affable hope they'd be nice neighbors. "Blythe's coming to have the front room next as soon as Cross Eyes can pink-wash it—" Her eyes glimpsed the box, she fairly ran for it, "That's Maman's," she exclaimed, "How did you find it?" She hugged it delightedly; she opened it—"Even its emptiness smells nice," she sighed.
"Oughtn't there to be a secrud pocket in it, m'loidy? With the missing will and the dagger he stabbed her with?"
"Nothing like that," laughed Miss Day with one of her delicious excursions into slang, "it was just for Maman's writing things—but I'm that proud to have it—"
She was still holding the box when Janet brought up their dinner.
After the Poetry Girl had left, she settled herself for her scolding.
She knew that she was due for it. For naturally she had to confess
that she'd asked Miss Modder to come live in the house.
"What's she paying?" demanded Janet.