I thought it was sweet of her to talk like that, and wanted so badly to find a way out of the difficulty. I always feel there must be a way, and if one only thinks long enough it can generally be found. I sat plunged in thought, and at last the inspiration came.
“Didn’t you say this room was your own to do with as you liked?”
“Yes; mother said I could have it for my den. Nobody uses it now; but, Una, it is hideous, too!”
“But it might be made pretty! It is small, and wouldn’t take much furnishing. You could pick up a few odds and ends from other rooms that would not be missed.”
“Oh, yes, mother wouldn’t mind that, and the green felting on the floor is quite nice and new; but the paint, and the paper-saffron roses—and gold skriggles—and a light oak door! How could you possibly make anything look artistic against such a background?”
“You couldn’t, and it wouldn’t be much fun if you could. I’ve thought of something far more exciting. Lorna, let us paper and paint it ourselves! Let us go to town to-morrow, and choose the very, very most artistic and up-to-date paper that can be bought, and buy some tins of enamel, and turn workmen every morning. Oh, do! I should love it; and you were saying only an hour ago that you did not know how to amuse me in the mornings. If we did the room together you would always associate me with it, and I should feel as if it were partly mine, and be able to imagine just where you were sitting. Oh, do, Lorna! It would be such ripping sport!”
She didn’t speak for a good half-minute, but just sat staring up in ecstasy of joy.
“You angel!” she cried at last. “You simple duck! How can you think of such lovely plans? Oh, Una, how have I lived without you all these months? Of course, I’ll do it. I’d love to! I am never happier than when I am wrapped up in an apron with a brush in my hand. I’ve enamelled things before now, but never hung a paper. Do you really think we could?”
“Of course! If the British workman can do it, there can’t be much skill required, and we with our trained intelligence will soon overcome any difficulty,” I said grandiloquently. “All we want is a pot of paste, and a pair of big scissors, and a table to lay the strips of paper on. I’ve seen it done scores of times.”
“So have I,” said Lorna. “And doesn’t the paste smell! I expect, what with that and the enamel, we shall have no appetites left. It will spoil our complexions, too, very likely, and make us pale and sallow, but that doesn’t matter.”