Old Rose and Silver | Page 3

is coming. She has enough clothes to set up a modest shop, should she desire to 'go into trade' as the English say."
"I'd forgotten Isabel," said Rose, again. "We must find some callow youths to amuse her. A girl of twenty can't appreciate a real man."
"Sometimes a girl of forty can't, either," laughed Madame, with a sly glance at Rose. "Cheer up, my dear--I'm nearing seventy, and I assure you that forty is really very young."
"It's scarcely infantile, but I'll admit that I'm young--comparatively."
"All things are comparative in this world, and perhaps you and Isabel, with your attendant swains, may enable me to forget that I'm no longer young, even comparatively."
The guest came in, somewhat shyly. She was a cousin of Rose's, on the mother's side, and had arrived only that afternoon on a visit.
"Bless us," said Madame Bernard; "how pretty we are! Isabel, you're a credit to the establishment."
Isabel smiled--a little, cool smile. She was almost as tall as Rose and towered far above the little lady in grey who offered her a welcoming hand and invited her to sit by the fire. Isabel's gown was turquoise blue and very becoming, as her hair and eyes were dark and her skin was fair. Her eyes were almost black and very brilliant; they literally sparkled when she allowed herself to become interested in anything.
"I'm not late, am I?" she asked.
"No," answered Rose, glancing at the clock. "It's ten minutes to seven."
"I couldn't find my things. It was like dressing in a dream, when, as soon as you find something you want, you immediately lose everything else."
"I know," laughed Rose. "I had occasion to pack a suit-case myself last night, during my troubled slumbers."
A large yellow cat appeared mysteriously out of the shadows and came, yawning, toward the fire. He sat down on the edge of Madame's grey gown, and blinked.
Isabel drew her skirts away. "I don't like cats," she said.
"There are cats and cats," remarked Madame Bernard in a tone of gentle rebuke. "Mr. Boffin is not an ordinary cat. He is a gentleman and a scholar and he never forgets his manners."
"I've wondered, sometimes," said Rose, "whether he really knows everything, or only pretends that he does. He looks very wise."
"Silence and reserve will give anyone a reputation for wisdom," Madame responded. She bent down to stroke the yellow head, but, though Mr. Boffin gratefully accepted the caress, he did not condescend to purr. Presently he stalked away into the shadows, waving his yellow tail.
"What a lovely room this is," observed Isabel, after a pause.
"It's comfortable," replied Madame. "I couldn't live in an ugly place."
Everything in the room spoke eloquently of good taste, from the deep- toned Eastern rug at the hearth to the pictures upon the grey-green walls. There was not a false note anywhere in the subtle harmony of line, colour, and fabric. It was the sort of room that one comes back to, after long absence, with renewed appreciation.
"I love old mahogany," continued Isabel. "I suppose you've had this a long, long time."
"No, it's new. To me--I mean. I have some beautiful old French mahogany, but I don't use it."
Her voice was very low at the end of the sentence. She compressed her lips tightly and, leaning forward, vigorously poked the fire. A stream of sparks went up the chimney and quick flames leaped to follow.
"Don't set the house on fire, Aunt Francesca," cautioned Rose. "There's the dinner gong."
The three went out, Madame Bernard a little ahead and the two younger women together. Rose sat opposite the head of the table and Isabel was placed at Madame's right. In a single glance, the guest noted that the table was perfectly appointed. "Are you making company of me?" she asked.
"Not at all," smiled Madame. "None the less, there is a clear distinction between eating and dining and we endeavour to dine."
"If Aunt Francesca were on a desert island," said Rose, "I believe she would make a grand affair of her solitary dinner, and have her coffee in the morning before she rolled out of the sand."
The little old lady dimpled with pleasure. "I'd try to," she laughed. "I think I'd--"
She was interrupted by a little exclamation of pleasure from Rose, who had just discovered a small white parcel at her plate. She was untying it with eager fingers, while her colour came and went. A card fluttered out, face upward. "To my dear Rose, with love from Aunt Francesca," was written in a small, quaint hand.
It was a single magnificent ruby set in a ring which exactly fitted. Rose seldom wore rings and wondered, vaguely, how Aunt Francesca knew.
"I filled a finger of one of your gloves," said Madame, as though she had read the thought, "and had it fitted. Simple, wasn't it?"
"Oh," breathed Rose, "it's beautiful