The Spanish Chest | Page 3

few sad confused days when nothing seemed real, and
strangers had been kind in a way that Estelle accepted with a sort of
resentful patience, plain even to Edith. But since then, life had been
rather cheerful, with a great deal of attention from Nurse, and Estelle's
time almost wholly given to her. It was gratifying to share Sister's
confidence and to help arrange the rooms attractively for the possible
delightful people who ought to come to lodge with them.
That they might not be delightful, Sister would not admit for a moment,
so of course they would be. St. Aubin's itself was far more desirable as
a place of residence than the noisy Exeter street where Edith had spent
much of her life. Far back in the past she could just remember a
charming Surrey village with a pretty vine-covered church where
Daddy used to preach. She could recall exactly how her fat legs
dangled helplessly from the high pew seat. Directly behind sat a stout
farmer with four sons. The boys made faces at Edith on the sly; their
mother sometimes gave her peppermints.
Edith's thoughts had wandered rather far afield, though still alert for
any gleam of the yellow shells, when she arrived opposite Noirmont
Terrace and reluctantly left the sands. A light shone from the

drawing-room and she knew that Annette would be bringing in supper,
and Sister would be found poring over a little account book with a
"don't speak just now" look in her eyes.
But Estelle proved to be waiting at the open door and as Edith began to
run on catching sight of her, she thought that Sister somehow looked
happier.
"Did you meet Mr. Angus?" Estelle inquired. "He went toward the
sands."
"I saw him in the distance," replied Edith. "Why, Star, you look
like--like a star," she ended laughing. "Was Mr. Angus agreeable? Did
he say you oughtn't to take people?"
"I think he doesn't wholly disapprove now," answered Estelle gently.
"And he is going to do what he can toward sending pleasant lodgers.
Wouldn't it be nice if some dear old ladies should come and want to
stay with us all winter?"
"Just ladies?" queried Edith. "Do they have to be old?"
"I shouldn't take gentlemen," said Estelle. "Nurse wouldn't approve,
and ladies would be pleasanter. Perhaps there might be a young mother
and some ducky little children. How would you like that?"
"Much better," responded Edith. "I don't want any fussy old freaks with
false fronts and shawls. They'd expect to be read aloud to and waited on
within an inch of their lives. I'd like some babies to take down to dig
and paddle. Do say you'll have children, Sister."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I think we'll have to take the people who
want to come," replied Estelle sensibly. "Let's just hope that somebody
very nice will think we'd be nice to stay with. Come in now, Edith.
Annette has shrimps for supper and after we are finished, we will put a
card in the window and see what happens next."
But the little white card that most modestly announced "Lodgings"

remained in the drawing-room casement for a week, and every day as
Edith came from school, she looked anxiously to see whether it was
gone. Its absence would mean that some one had looked at the rooms
with approval.
One afternoon as she came up the Terrace, the sight of an unknown
face at an upper window sent a thrill down her back. The card was yet
in evidence but the presence of strangers indicated that some one had
felt attracted by Rose Villa. Yes, there was a cab at the door.
As Edith entered quietly a voice struck her ear, struck it unpleasantly,
an English voice, high-pitched and rather supercilious.
"I should require to see your kitchen, Miss Pearce, and your servants. I
am most particular. In fact, I must be free at any time to inspect the
scullery. There must be a definite arrangement about Marmaduke's
meals. He likes a light breakfast with plenty of cream, and for dinner a
chop or a bit of chicken. His dinner must be served with my luncheon.
Then for tea--"
"I am afraid my servants would be unwilling to cook especially for a
dog," interposed Estelle's voice, courteous but with a chilling tone
Edith had never suspected it possessed. "It is useless for you to
consider the lodgings."
"Oh, your rooms are very passable," said the voice. "Small, of course,
and underfurnished, but some pictures and antimacassars would take
off that bare look. And Marmaduke is adorable. Your cook would soon
be devotion itself. Why, at my last lodgings--"
"I really cannot undertake the care of a pet animal," said Estelle firmly.
"I hope to have other