"Oh, because—I don't know—a painter is too busy always—he doesn't play with little girls. When I have a little girl, I shall play with her all day long."
Dora felt the reproach stab straight to her heart. She was on the verge of tears once more, and felt a choking lump in her throat, but she mastered the emotion.
"Then what kind of man shall you marry?" said she, with an effort at her gayest tones.
"None at all—I shall stay and live with you always; or else I shall be a nurse, like Aunt Gabrielle."
"To nurse sick people and take care of the poor who are suffering?"
"Yes," replied Eva, "and to wear a dress just like auntie's."
"Oh, that is your reason, eh? a very good one!"
Gabrielle looked her best perhaps in the nurse's costume which had so taken Eva's fancy. Of the purely English type, with rosy complexion, delicate features, sweet soft eyes and fair hair, and with that mixture of modesty and assurance in her bearing which is so characteristic of the best of her countrywomen, she lent a fresh charm to the always pleasing semi-nun-like attire worn by hospital nurses. Something of that joy of living, which angels seem to stamp upon the faces of women who devote themselves to the well-being and happiness of others and to the assuaging of pain and suffering, had fascinated her little niece. Eva felt the charm, without being able to analyse it. She knew that Aunt Gabrielle would look beautiful in any dress, but thought that she was lovely in her nurse's garb.
The child had forgotten all her tears and went on with her prattle. It was nearly five o'clock when Philip came in, evidently in a poor humour, and muttering words that did not reach Dora's ear.
"Eva," said he, "you must go and get dressed now, there's a good child; we are going to dine a little earlier to-night, so that you may sit up to dinner with us. You know, it is a holiday to-day; it is the anniversary of the day daddy and mama were married on—I'll warrant there will be a special pudding for the occasion."