"Oh, Martha!" Emily had exclaimed, "what a lot you have to look forward to! You'll be an orphan some day, and you can paint the whole house purple!"
"Now, mammie, that's just plain nasty of you. You egged me on to say what I would do, and now you make fun of me!" But Martha, mollified, had gone on to tell of the staggering sights she had seen in other girls' homes, reeling colors, threatening emerald ceilings, and cubistic ornamentations.
And Emily had pondered the matter, Martha's sigh rankling. "Her room is all vermilion and blue. But she's an orphan, of course." Did her child, in spite of her mother's long determination to the contrary, feel hampered, thwarted of joy by parental preferences? Was she getting eager to get out of the home, away some place to freedom, as her mother had run once? After all, that floor wasn't so very valuable, and the paper needed renewing. Martha wouldn't be at home months together now, to get tired of her gaudiness. It wouldn't cost such a lot, and no one would have to see it. The door into the outer hall could be kept shut.
A day or two later she had said:
"Do you know what I'm going to give you for your birthday?"
Martha guessed extravagantly:
"A car, mammie? A little runabout to take back to school?"
"Not much! I'm going to let you do your bedroom over to suit yourself."
And Martha had looked blank for a moment, and then murmured:
"Oh no! It wouldn't do, mother. We couldn't. We'd—mother—we'd quarrel, as sure as you live. I'd get started, and I'd want my own way, and you wouldn't approve."