“Hate to get up--” (She drew a larger ring) “Truly sorry; I’d really like to but I’m obsessed by that blouse and frock. . . . The frock’s blue, with silver and lavender embroidered, Japanese-looking motifs. . . . Simply heavenly. . . _French_ in every line! . . . It’s honestly worth far _more_ than she asks, but I expect to get her down a few pegs. . . .” “Sorry,” I said, and then I went on to Leslie’s room to ask her. I found her wearing her chin strap and polishing her nails. “Hello,” she said without changing her expression. (I knew then that she had on a grease cream that is put on to remove wrinkles. Leslie hasn’t any, but she says a great aunt whom she looks a lot like has _dozens_, and so she means to stall them before they even think of coming!) “What do you want?” “Here,” I said, and held out Mr. Wake’s letter, which Leslie took, held up to the light and looked through, and after murmuring, “Hand made”--read. “Can’t,” she stated, “I suppose you’ll think I’m crazy, but I asked Miss Meek and Miss Bannister to go out to tea with me to-morrow afternoon.” “I think it’s fine of you,” I disagreed. “Not at _all_,” she answered sharply. (She hated being thought sentimental, and any mention of the kind things that she was coming to do, more and more regularly, really embarrassed her) “Nothing ‘fine’ about it at all! Only Miss Meek had never been to Doney’s and I thought she’d like it.” “She will,” I said, and then I told her I was sorry she couldn’t go, and went back to my own room, and sewed clean collars and cuffs in my serge dress, and looked over some music which Signor Paggi wanted me to read away from the piano and try to see and _feel_ in my mind. Then I went to my window and opened it, to hang out and peer down in the court. . . . It looked cold, and almost dreary, and I was glad to think that spring would be along soon, and I hoped that it would be nice, but I never dreamed, as I stood there, how nice it was to be, nor how many changes and happy readjustments it was to back. Gino came out, as I was looking down, but he didn’t whistle or sing--I think that Italian whistling and singing is cranked by the bright sun--and then he went in again. A cat pounced on a dried leaf that fluttered across one of the brown paths. . . . A brilliant parrot that hung in his cage outside of a window down the block a little way, sung out shrilly, and I noticed a dark-skinned woman across the way hanging clothes out on a line that was strung from her shutter to a neighbor’s. . . . It was when I was seeing all these things that Beata tapped, and came in bearing my second letter from home--oh, it was so good to get them!--and one from Miss Sheila. I read them both through several times, and then I slipped Mother’s letter in the pocket of the dress I wore, and Miss Sheila’s letter into the pocket of my suit coat, for in Miss Sheila’s letter was news that I felt sure Mr. Wake would enjoy, and I meant to read it aloud to him on the following day.