“I shan’t be a moment,” he exclaimed, and they heard him running down stairs.
Left alone with Mrs. Osborne, Rose moved to the window and looked out. The atmosphere was radiant; even the commonplace narrow street below was touched with the alchemy of spring; sunshine slanted across it, a flock of pigeons gathered where some grain had fallen, to rise with the whir of wings at the first alarm. The garden opposite, above the terrace wall, was coming into bloom, a tall magnolia in a fluttering mantle of white and pink and the lilacs full out on the southern slope, while behind it, a long row of young elm trees were still delicate with new greens, and beyond rose the gray tower of the church across the square. How sweet it was, how calm, how reassuring!
Rose heard the rustle of the other woman’s silken linings as she moved restlessly about the studio, and after a moment she came over to the window, though Rose’s very attitude was repellent.
“How full the lilacs are,” she observed, and the girl noticed the rich softness of her tone, “I like them; we had lilacs about the old house at home.”
“They grow wonderfully in New England, I know. I’ve often seen them like trees,” Rose rejoined a little stiffly.
“But I’m not from New England,” laughed Lily Osborne, “I’ve often wondered what mother thought of it.”
“She wasn’t a New Englander then?” Rose turned and looked at her, more interested than usual.
Mrs. Osborne shrugged her shoulders with much expression. “She was from New Orleans, a French Creole. She married a Frenchman, I was born in Paris; it was my husband who took me to New Hampshire first; my mother had lived there five years with some relatives, but she never spoke of it!” she added laughing.
“You are only half an American then,” Rose remarked, surprised.
Mrs. Osborne looked at her critically through her long eyelashes. “I’m a woman,” she said; “that’s all we ever are, my dear, and it’s enough.”