“Oh dear, no,” said Betty, with rather unnecessary emphasis; “and I don’t know anything about pictures. I don’t think I care for them much.” And then, as she fancied that Madeleine’s head was veering in the direction of Frances and her brother, she burst out into another little rush of polite conversation.
“I have never been in London,” as if this fact was sure to enlist her companion’s interest, which, to tell the truth, it did.
“Really?” said Madeleine. “I rather envy you. I often do envy those who have not seen much or travelled much till they were old enough to understand something of what they saw.”
At another time Betty would have understood and probably taken up the suggestions in this remark, but just now her brain, by no means a deficient one, was too absorbed by one dominant idea.
“They are getting on nicely,” she thought as some snatches of the tête-à-tête a few chairs off caught her ears. “I must keep Miss Littlewood talking to me, or Eira will think me stupid when I tell her about it.”
“Frances was there once,” she said, “for a fortnight. She got to know several of the shops, which was a very good thing, wasn’t it? She wrote down the names and addresses of some of them, and just lately we have written for things—we had—” here she stopped and grew crimson, and Madeleine, wondering what could be the cause of this sudden embarrassment, said kindly:
“Yes? I hope the results were satisfactory. About Christmas-time, in the country, one seems always to have so many wants.”
Betty laughed. Her laugh was extremely pretty, and it seemed to set both her and her companion more at their ease.
“Wants!” she said, with, for the first time, some of her own natural manner. “I don’t think our wants are confined to Christmas! They go on all the year round, but—” then with a little flush again, and a mental “she looks so kind”—“I don’t see why I mayn’t tell you,” she went on aloud, though with a slightly lowered voice. “This Christmas we were so lucky. A friend—an old friend—sent us a present to spend as we liked, and you don’t know how delightful it has been! We have so enjoyed ordering things! The only fear was that mamma wouldn’t like it, but it has come all right. Frances explained it so nicely to her!”
“How nice!” said Madeleine. “That kind of present often gives far more pleasure than anything else. I remember when I was about—I suppose about your age—the intense delight of my father’s giving me money one birthday, when he had not been able to choose a gift as usual.”—“She is a dear little thing, after all,” she thought to herself: “she cannot be more than eighteen or nineteen: she is surely the youngest!”