“Lena could not get pictures of all the places,” she said, “so she took several sketches herself. These in the side-pocket don’t belong exactly to Romola—they are photographs of some of the great pictures in the Galleries.”
“How well you explain it!” said Jessie admiringly as she put the case carefully back. “Just as if you had been there! But you haven’t been to Italy, have you?”
“No,” said Miss Colbourne, “but I hope to go soon,” and her face glowed with suppressed fervour. “It has been the dream of my life to see Italy ever since I was a little girl. It seemed impossible then, but now I think it may be managed next year.”
After Jessie had gone, Miss Colbourne settled down to her books. It was after eight when Mrs. Coombes, the churchwarden’s wife, bustled in. She was a stout, pleasant little woman who knew everyone’s business.
“Good evening, Miss Colbourne. Why, bless me, you have let your fire out! Aren’t you cold?”
“I have been busy and forgot it,” said Miss Colbourne apologetically, rising to meet her, “and it is rather early for fires, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know! It looks pretty dismal without one on a wet evening. I have just run in to pay for Gertie’s lessons. Mr. Coombes wrote you out a cheque two or three days ago, but I’ve been too busy to get round with it.”
While Miss Colbourne was receipting the account, Mrs. Coombes went on—
“I suppose you have heard about Mrs. Bateson? I can’t say that I was surprised.”
“No,” said Miss Colbourne, turning round, her pen suspended in her hand. “What is it? Nothing wrong, I hope?”