The Family
people were aware only of her rich complexion, her
curving, unresisting mouth and mysterious eyes.
Tom Outland had seen nothing else, and he was a
young man who saw a great deal.
“Am I interrupting something important, Papa?”
“No, not at all, my dear. Sit down.”
On his writing-table she caught a glimpse of pages in a handwriting not his—a script she knew very well.
“Not much choice of chairs, is there?” she smiled. “Papa, I don’t like to have you working in a place like this. It’s not fitting.”
“Much easier than to break in a new room, Rosie. A work-room should be like an old shoe; no matter how shabby, it’s better than a new one.”
“That’s really what I came to see you about.” Rosamond traced the edge of a hole in the matting with the tip of her lilac sunshade. “Won’t you let me build you a little study in the back yard of the new house? I have such good ideas for it, and you would have no bother about it at all.”
“Oh, thank you, Rosamond. It’s most awfully nice of you to think of it. But keep it just an idea—it’s better so. Lots of things are. For the present I’ll plod on here. It’s absurd, but it suits me. Habit is such a big part of work.”
“With Augusta’s old things lying about, and those dusty old forms? Why didn’t she at least get those out of your way?”
—59—
