I could not understand her, but I thought it wiser to say no more about London and its attractions. Nor was I sorry when Evey suddenly changed the conversation by exclaiming:
“Oh, Connie, I have so wanted to thank you about the rose paper. Lady Honor told us. You can’t think how lovely it looks—you must come and see. Father says I may have pink ribbons to tie up the curtains, and perhaps pink on the dressing-table—we shall fix when mother comes. I think we could trim the table ourselves. Perhaps you could help us, Connie? Are you clever at things like that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I ever tried. The servants always do up the dressing-tables, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, of course, you have more servants, and they haven’t so much to do as ours. But you know, Connie, we’re really very poor indeed, so we have to do things ourselves, especially if we want any extra things—pretty things. I daresay you can’t understand how careful we have to be. But we’re very happy all the same.”
“I suppose people get accustomed to things,” I said. “I don’t think I should like to be poor at all. You see I’ve always had everything I wanted. But I should like very much to help you if ever I could.”
I meant to be gracious, I am afraid I was only patronising. Vague thoughts of presents to Evey and the others out of my lavish pocket-money were in my mind; fortunately, I did not express them, and Evey, in the dignity of her simplicity, took my offer of “help” quite differently.
“I think very likely you could give me some ideas about the dressing-table,” she said consideringly. “I’m sure you have good taste—because of that lovely paper.”
And just then we found ourselves at Mr Bickersteth’s gate.