"I am so pleased you like the Yew Trees," I said, amiably. "It is a
nice old house, and it _might_ be made quite perfect. If we ever went
to live in it ourselves, I daresay we should change it a good deal--but
I don't think we ever shall. When papa retires, and I hope he will
before I'm grown up, mamma and I want to travel a good deal, and perhaps
to live in London. One gets tired of a little country-place."
Yvonne looked at me quite simply.
"Do you think so?" she said. "I feel as if we should never get tired of
Elmwood. And the people all seem so kind. London seems so very big,
but then, of course, I haven't been _very_ much there."
My conscience pricked me.
"Well, I haven't, either," I said; "but still--" I had really only been
there once, and for one week!
"We always stay with mother's godmother for a month every summer in
London, Mary and I, and mother comes for the last fortnight. Mother's
godmother is very kind, and we have very good music lessons--she gives
us them--she is Lady Honor's sister. But we _are_ always so glad to
come home again."
I could not understand her, but I thought it wiser to say no more about
London and its attractions. Nor was I sorry when Evey suddenly changed
the conversation by exclaiming:
"Oh, Connie, I have _so_ wanted to thank you about the rose paper. Lady
Honor told us. You can't think how lovely it looks--you must come and
see. Father says I may have pink ribbons to tie up the curtains, and
_perhaps_ pink on the dressing-table--we shall fix when mother comes. I
think we could trim the table ourselves. Perhaps you could help us,
Connie? Are you clever at things like that?"
"I don't know," I said. "I don't think I ever tried. The servants
always do up the dressing-tables, I suppose."
"Oh, yes, of course, you have more servants, and they haven't so much to
do as ours. But you know, Connie, we're really very poor indeed, so we
_have_ to do things ourselves, especially if we want any extra things--
pretty things. I daresay you can't understand how careful we have to
be. But we're very happy all the same."
"I suppose people get accustomed to things," I said. "I don't think I
should like to be poor at all. You see I've always had everything I
wanted. But I should like very much to help you if ever I could."
I meant to be gracious, I am afraid I was only patronising. Vague
thoughts of presents to Evey and the others out of my lavish
pocket-money were in my mind; fortunately, I did not express them, and
Evey, in the dignity of her simplicity, took my offer of "help" quite
differently.
"I think very likely you could give me some ideas about the
dressing-table," she said consideringly. "I'm sure you have good
taste--because of that lovely paper."
And just then we found ourselves at Mr Bickersteth's gate.