Claire’s glance was not entirely sympathetic.
“There are different kinds of prose. You will forgive my saying that your especial sort is an Edition de luxe.”
“I know! I know! You can’t be harder on me than I am on myself. My dear, I have a most sensible head. I’m about as practical and long-headed as any woman of forty. It’s my silly old heart which handicaps me. It won’t fall into line... Have you finished your mending? May I come upstairs and see your room while you dress?”
For just the fraction of a moment Claire hesitated. Janet saw the doubt, and attributed it to disinclination to exhibit a shabby room; but in reality Claire was proud of her attic, which a little ingenuity had made into a very charming abode. Turkey red curtains draped the window, a low basket-chair was covered in the same material, a red silk eiderdown covered the little bed. On the white walls were a profusion of photographs and prints, framed with a simple binding of leather around the glass. The toilet table showed an array of well-polished silver, while a second table was arranged for writing, and held a number of pretty accessories. A wide board had been placed over the narrow mantel, on which stood a few good pieces of china and antique silver. There was nothing gimcrack to be seen, no one-and-elevenpenny ornaments, no imitations of any kind; despite its sloping roof and its whitewashed walls, it was self-evidently a lady’s room, and Janet’s admiration was unfeigned.
“My dear, it’s a lamb! I love your touches of scarlet. Dear me, you’ve quite a view! I shall have sloping walls when I change my room. They are ever so picturesque. It’s a perfect duck, and everything looks so bright. They do keep it well!”
“I keep it well!” Claire corrected. “Lizzie ‘does’ it every morning, but it’s not a doing which satisfies me, so I put in a little manual labour every afternoon as a change from using my brain. I do all the polishing. You can’t expect lodging-house servants to clean silver and brass.”
“Can’t you? No; I suppose you can’t.” Janet’s voice of a sudden sounded flat and absent. There was a moment’s pause, then she added tentatively, “You have a cuckoo clock?”
Claire was thankful that her face was screened from view as she was in the process of tying on her veil. A muffled, “Yes,” was her only reply.
Janet stood in front of the clock, staring at it with curious eyes.
“It’s—it’s like—there were some just like this in a shop at Saint Moritz.”