“She hasn’t got the equipment,” said Mrs. Bushey with a sagacious air.
Her eye roamed about the room and lighted on Miss Bliss’ legs. “_Are_
you cold?” she asked, as if amazed.
“Frozen,” answered Miss Bliss crossly.
“How can that be possible when I’ve done everything to make your room
warm, spent all my winter earnings on coal?”
Miss Bliss cocked up her chin and replied:
“You must have had very poor business this winter.” Then to me very
pointedly: “I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Drake, if you’d lend me your
Navajo blanket, just for a few nights. It would look so bad for the
house if I was found frozen to death in bed some morning.”
I agreed with alarmed haste, but Mrs. Bushey did not seem inclined for
war. She smiled, murmuring, “Poor girl, you’re anemic,” and then, her
eye lighting on Marie Antoinette’s mirror:
“Yes, Miss Harris’ll never get anywhere till she gets some color into
her voice. It’s the coldest organ I ever heard. Would you mind if I
took that mirror away? I have a new lodger, a delightful woman from
Philadelphia, and I’ve no mirror for her--I can’t, I literally _can’t_,
buy one with my finances the way they are. I suppose after this failure
Miss Harris’ll be late with her rent.”
Thus Mrs. Bushey. When she had gone--taking the mirror--Miss Bliss lay
flat before the fire and reviled her.
Miss Gorringe came next with the green satin dress. It was upon Miss
Gorringe I was pinning my hopes. None of the others knew anything. Miss
Gorringe, lifting out the dress with cold and careful hands, looked
solemn:
“No, I can’t say it was a success. I’d like to because she’s certainly
one of the most lovely people I’ve ever played for, but--” She
depressed the corners of her mouth and slowly shook her head.