"The paint, miss," said Mrs, Doveton, beating eggs. "He'd painted the woodwork first rate, three coats."
"Three coats, and everything handsome about him," murmured Jane.
"Yes, miss, two flat and one round—and the house needed it, I tell you. Never a bit of paint since it was built, and most of the rooms lined with wood right up—same as doors; black as your hat they was, and he painted them nice bright colours—pink and blue, and a good gas green and a canary yellow; and how was he to know the old gentleman liked 'em all black and crocked? He hated paint, he did—same as you and me might hate dirt. Well, it was no use talking. There it was, and there it is. And that's why he won't let the house no more."
When they were back in the little sitting-room with the lustres and the beaded fire-screen, Lucilla said:
"I don't want to be mingy, but do you think we ought to have cake—with all those raisins and so many eggs? I hate to say it, but oughtn't we to economise?"
"No," said Jane firmly, "that's the one thing we won't do. You can't have a lark of any sort if you're always counting the halfpence. We won't spend more than we're obliged—that's not economy—it's just common sense. And we'll make as much money as we can. That's the way to get on in life. Not by saving, but by making. Let's get some oranges and make some marmalade, and when people come for flowers and we haven't got any we'll sell them marmalade instead. There are heaps of jampots on the top shelf in the china cupboard."
They made fifty-six pounds. It was hot work, but printing the labels with pretty letters was fun. And, sure enough, they sold every pot. And could have sold them twice over.
"Do you think we sold it too cheap?" they asked Mrs. Doveton.
"Lord love you, no!" she said. "It's good marmalade, and besides, there's the novelty; the boys enjoy buying it off you two sweet young ladies with no hats and their hair
