“Yes, I should give it to Ursula for her wedding,” she resumed, after another long pause, “unless—”
She broke off.
“Unless what?” prompted Harriet.
“Unless I should like it for a cushion in my coffin. I think that might be rather nice.”
“Aunt!” exclaimed Harriet, in real horror, and a sudden film of feeling clouded her passionate eyes.
“Why, my dear, whatever is the matter?” queried the elder lady, calmly. “All of us die some day, do we not? And when my time has come, I should like to carry away with me my last bit of work.”
“Ah, but this is not going to be your last, you know,” comforted Harriet, with the easy infatuation of the survivor.
“Well, if not, then Ursula shall certainly have it,” Mevrouw said, cheerfully. “I wish I were quite sure she would put it, as a fire-screen, in her drawing-room. Imagine my work in the drawing-room at the Horst. I should like that.” She resumed her tender contemplation of the immovably staring figures. “I am very tired,” she whispered; “go down now to your uncle, and tell him the doctor says he can have his party on the sixteenth or after. Don’t say anything about my message; your uncle’s got a cold, but he doesn’t want people to know it. There can be no objection, however, to his asking people here.”