vaguely at one of the old brown-plush rocking-chairs there. Upon
her forehead were the little shadows of an apprehensive reverie,
and her thoughts overlapped one another in a fretful jumble. "What
will he think? These old chairs--they're hideous. I'll scrub
those soot-streaks on the columns: it won't do any good, though.
That long crack in the column--nothing can help it. What will he
think of papa? I hope mama won't talk too much. When he thinks
of Mildred's house, or of Henrietta's, or any of 'em, beside this--
She said she'd buy plenty of roses; that ought to help some.
Nothing could be done about these horrible chairs: can't take 'em
up in the attic--a room's got to have chairs! Might have rented
some. No; if he ever comes again he'd see they weren't here.
'If he ever comes again'--oh, it won't be THAT bad! But it won't
be what he expects. I'm responsible for what he expects: he
expects just what the airs I've put on have made him expect.
What did I want to pose so to him for--as if papa were a wealthy
man and all that? What WILL he think? The photograph of the
Colosseum's a rather good thing, though. It helps some--as
if we'd bought it in Rome perhaps. I hope he'll think so; he
believes I've been abroad, of course. The other night he said,
'You remember the feeling you get in the Sainte-Chapelle'.--There's
another lie of mine, not saying I didn't remember because I'd never
been there. What makes me do it? Papa MUST wear his evening
clothes. But Walter----"

With that she recalled her mother's admonition, and went upstairs
to Walter's door. She tapped upon it with her fingers.

"Time to get up, Walter. The rest of us had breakfast over half
an hour ago, and it's nearly eight o'clock. You'll be late.