The Fortunes of the Farrells | Page 3

secret that the whole being and
intent of these flowers was to hide the joins beneath.
She also possessed a table and a work-basket; but the former was
decidedly ancient and insecure as to legs, while the basket made no
pretence of shutting, but looked on unabashed while its contents lay
scattered over the rug.
A dressmaker's stand stood in the corner, on which a blouse, more or
less complete, was invariably pinned, waiting for the moment when
Mollie had time to devote to her favourite occupation. There were no
book- shelves, but a litter of magazines behind a cushion on the
window-seat, and innumerable photographs were secured to the wall by
black-headed pins, to fade slowly but surely into unrecognition in the

unbroken glare of light.
Mollie herself pined for curtains to mitigate the draught during the
winter months, but the three other inmates of Attica loudly declared
that they could not spare a fraction of light, so she gave way smiling, as
her custom was. Mollie never grumbled; it was so dull, as she said, and
she loved to be gay. An invincible cheeriness of heart carried her
gallantly over the quicksands in which Ruth was submerged by reason
of her moodiness, and Trix by her quick temper, and made it a physical
impossibility to repine over the inevitable.
Fifteen-year-old Trix was in that stage when the Oxford examination
seems the end-all and be-all of existence. Her section of Attica was
proudly dubbed "The Study," and had its walls covered with maps,
class lists, and "memos" of great variety. The desk was strewn with
papers and exercise-books, and there lingered in the air that
indescribable scent of sponge, slate, indiarubber, and freshly sharpened
pencils which seem inseparable from youthful study.
Trix confessed to one weakness,--only one!--an overwhelming greed
for pencil-boxes and sharpeners, and the contents of the wooden shelf
above the desk testified to her indulgence in this craving. "The girls
gave them to me!" she used to say when strangers exclaimed at the
number of the piled-up boxes, but she blushed even as she spoke,
knowing well that to keep sixpence in her pocket and pass a pencil-box
of a new design, was a feat of self-denial beyond imagination.
Dear, chubby, placid Betty was only thirteen, and cared for nothing in
the world but her relations, chocolate-creams, and scrambling through
the day's classes with as little exertion as possible. She shivered in her
corner, poor mite, sucking audibly, to the distraction of her elders, the
while she skimmed over her lessons, and looked forward to the time
when she would be free to devote herself to the hobby of the hour.
Sometimes it was postcards; sometimes it was stamps; sometimes it
was penny toys collected from street vendors. It had once soared as
high as autographs, and a promising beginning of three signatures were
already pasted into the remaining leaves of an exercise-book. Whatever

the collection might be, it lived in heaps on the uncarpeted floor; and
when Betty had a tidy fit, was covered with a crochet antimacassar
which had known better days, and had grown decidedly mellow in tint.
On this particular afternoon, the two younger sisters were taking tea
with school friends, while their elders enjoyed an uninterrupted tete-
a-tete, when they could indulge in a favourite game. When life was
unusually flat and prosaic, when the weather was wet, invitations
conspicuous by their absence, and the want of pocket-money
particularly poignant, Mollie would cry ardently: "Let's be Berengaria
and Lucille!" and, presto! the two girls were transplanted to another
world--a world with the magic letter W added to its address, where
empty purses and dyed dresses existed not, and all was joy, jewellery,
and junketing.
Lucille had lately become the bride of a millionaire and adoring duke;
the peerless Berengaria wrought havoc with the peace of Lord Arthur,
and had more suitors than she could count on the fingers of both hands.
It was a fascinating make-believe; but, as Ruth plaintively remarked, it
did come with somewhat of a shock to be dragged back to earth
by--socks!
She stood leaning against the mantelpiece, looking on with frowning
brows while her sister collected together scattered materials, and
carried them and the yawning basket back to the cosy corner in
Fireland, where, for the hour, she was an invited guest.
"Quick's the word and sharp's the action!" cried Mollie cheerily. "Now
for a grand old cobble; and if there are any heels out to-day, my fine
young gentlemen, don't blame me if you have to tread on knots for the
rest of the week! It's the strangest thing on earth that I can remember
nice things year after year without an effort, and yet forget this horrid
mending every Saturday as regularly as the day comes round."