Rosalind still wore the pretty light silk which had given her such an elegant appearance at the Elliot-Smiths’ that afternoon. Securing the bolt of her door, she pushed aside a heavy curtain, which concealed the part of her room devoted to her wardrobe, washing apparatus, etc. Rosalind’s wardrobe had a glass door, and she could see her _petite_ figure in it from head to foot. It was a very small figure, but exquisitely proportioned. Its owner admired it much. She turned herself round, took up a hand-glass and surveyed herself in profile and many other positions. Then, taking off her pretty dress, she arrayed herself in a long white muslin dressing-robe, and letting down her golden hair, combed out the glittering masses. They fell in showers below her waist. Her face looked more babyish and innocent than ever as it smiled to its own fair image in the glass. “How he did scowl at me!” said Rosalind, suddenly speaking aloud. “But I had to say it. I was determined to find out for myself how much or how little he cares for Maggie Oliphant, and, alas! there’s nothing of the ‘little’ in his affection. Well, well! I did not do badly to-day. I enjoyed myself and I took a nice rise out of that disagreeable Miss Peel. Now _must_ I look through those horrid French notes? Need I?” She pirouetted on one toe in front of the glass. The motion exhilarated her, and, raising her white wrapper so as to get a peep at her small, pretty feet, she waltzed slowly and gracefully in front of the mirror. “I can’t and won’t study to-night,” she said again. “I hate study, and I will not spoil my looks by burning the midnight oil.” Suddenly she clasped her hands and the color rushed into her cheeks. “How fortunate that I remembered! I must write to mother this very night. This is Thursday. The auction is on Monday. I have not a post to lose.” Hastily seating herself in front of her bureau, Rosalind scribbled a few lines: DEAREST, PRECIOUS MAMSIE: Whatever happens, please send me a postal order for £10 by return. One of the richest girls in the place is going to have an auction, and I shall pick up some _treasures._ If you could spare £15, or even £20, the money would be well spent, but ten at least I must have. There is a sealskin jacket, which cost at least eighty pounds, and _such_ coral ornaments— you know, that lovely pink shade. Send me all you can, precious mamsie, and make your Baby happy. “Your own little ROSE. “P. S.— Oh, mamsie, _such_ a sealskin! and _such_ coral!” This artless epistle was quickly enclosed in an envelope, addressed and deposited in the post-box. Afterward pretty little Rosalind spent a night of dreamless slumber and awoke in the morning as fresh and innocent-looking as the fairest of the babies she compared herself to. CHAPTER XVII SEALSKIN AND PINK CORAL