“Yes,” Florence responded, “but after all, they are only prints of the work of some great master. ‘Veny LeCarte’” she read at the bottom of one. “I believe, yes, they’re all by the same man.”
For some time they sat there in silence. They were at last about to rise when there came a light rap at their door.
“Let me in,” came from outside. “I saw the light in the room as I was passing and thought I’d come up to say ‘Good morning and Merry Christmas.’” It was Lucile.
“Merry Christmas yourself,” exclaimed Florence, throwing wide the door. “Come in.”
“This is Meg, Lucile; and Meg, that’s Lucile,” she smiled.
“But Florence, where in the world did you get those marvelous etchings?” exclaimed Lucile after she shook hands with Meg. “And why do you carpet your floor with them? I nearly stepped on one.”
“Etch—etchings!” stammered Florence. “They’re mine—at least I bought them.”
“Bought them! You? You bought them!” Lucile stared incredulous. Then, bending over, she read the name at the bottom of one. After that her eyes roved from picture to picture.
“Veny LeCarte,” she murmured as if in a dream. “And she says she bought them!” She dropped weakly into a chair.
“Florence,” she said at last, “do you know who Veny LeCarte was?”