friend Malooney. The drawing-room is too small to be of any use. I
may decide--as Robina has suggested--to 'throw it into the hall.'
But the stairs will remain. For dancing, private theatricals--things
to keep you children out of mischief--I have an idea I will explain
to you later on. The kitchen--"

"Can I have a room to myself?" asked Veronica.

Veronica was sitting on the floor, staring into the fire, her chin
supported by her hand. Veronica, in those rare moments when she is
resting from her troubles, wears a holy, far-away expression apt to
mislead the stranger. Governesses, new to her, have their doubts
whether on these occasions they are justified in dragging her back to
discuss mere dates and tables. Poets who are friends of mine, coming
unexpectedly upon Veronica standing by the window, gazing upward at
the evening star, have thought it was a vision, until they got closer
and found that she was sucking peppermints.

"I should so like to have a room all to myself," added Veronica.

"It would be a room!" commented Robin.

"It wouldn't have your hairpins sticking up all over the bed,
anyhow," murmured Veronica dreamily.

"I like that!" said Robin; "why--"

"You're harder than I am," said Veronica.

"I should wish you to have a room, Veronica," I said. "My fear is