"Awful," was the candid reply. "I expect I shall have to paint out everything I have put in—such a pity! It looked most weird and Rembrandtesque in the rich pea-soupy atmosphere, but alas! to-morrow will reveal it in its true colors, dirty and opaque. Here comes tea. How nice! Bring it here, Sally, there's a dear."
Sally obeyed. She was a middle-aged, kind, capable woman, who had been their nurse in old days, and their factotum ever since they were orphans.
"Miss Jac," said she, in righteous wrath, "take off them wet boots this minute, you naughty girl. Nice colds you'd all 'ave, if I wasn't to look after you. There was Mr. Osmond painting away this morning with 'is skylight wide open, and the snow falling on 'is 'ed. Wants to kill himself, I think."
"Sally," said Jac, as she sat down on the floor, and rapidly unlaced the offending boots, "I've something very particular to say. What is there for dinner? Is there anything in the house?"
"There's plenty of cold beef, and, as I know Miss 'Ilda don't fancy cold meat, I got some sausages."
"Any pudding?"
"Yes, miss."
"Sausages and mashed potatoes are perhaps vulgar, but they're very nice," said Jacqueline, meditatively. "You might make some anchovy toast, Sal—and—couldn't we have some spinach?"
"Who is coming?" asked Wyn, with interest.
"Mr. Haldane. He is coming to finish that charcoal sketch of me so I told him he had better come to dinner," replied Jac, with airy nonchalance.