CHAPTER II ELLEN BEGINS TO BE USEFUL Ellen fixed her eyes on the ruddy isinglass in the doors of the Latrobe. Certain discolorations gave to her fancy strange pictures,—a glowing sunset behind a line of trees, a burning lake beneath a cloudy sky. She wondered if Cousin Rindy ever had noticed them, but she did not ask, for her thoughts went galloping off to the little studio apartment in a big city, her home till three months ago. Now it was stripped of all its furnishings, occupied by strangers, and Ellen would know it no more. “Go on,” encouraged Miss Rindy after a short silence. “You needn’t tell me where you were born; I know that, and I know when your parents left you. What I want to know is how you lived and all that. You went to school, of course.” “Oh, yes, I went to school, and I studied music and French at home. Mother and Father generally spoke it at meals. Even when I was quite small I could chatter away rather glibly, for they wouldn’t let me have things at table unless I asked for them in French.” “Much good it will do you here. I don’t suppose there are two persons in town who know a word of it, unless maybe Jeremy Todd; the Todds live next door.” “But you were in France and must speak it.” “A smattering, merely a smattering. I picked up a little, naturally, but most of my dealings were with our own boys, and I had enough to do without studying French grammar. Did your mother do her own work? How big was your flat?” “Only three rooms besides the bath. The studio and two rooms were all we needed. Mother got breakfast on a little gas stove; we had just any sort of lunch, and went out to dinner, sometimes to one place, sometimes to another; that was while Father lived. It was fun to decide which restaurant we could afford to go to. If Dad was flush, we’d go to a swell place; if he wasn’t, we’d go to a cheap cafeteria, but we didn’t mind. Often we’d have a late supper. Some of our artist friends would call up and say they were going to bring some specially nice thing from the delicatessen; then Mother would make coffee, and it would be awfully jolly.” “Humph!” Miss Rindy grunted. “What did you do when you were not at school?” “Oh, I just knocked around, practised, of course. Sometimes I sat for Dad when he had an illustration to make, and often I washed his brushes. Often, too, we’d all go out to some exhibition or a musicale. I loved the musicales. Mother had a lovely voice, you know; she sang in a church choir, and sometimes, after Dad went, she sang at private houses.” “You still kept the studio while your father was in France, and after he came back?” “Yes, for he was always hoping to get back to work, but he couldn’t, though he tried. You see it was shell-shock, and he was gassed, too.” “I know, I know,” Miss Rindy breathed. “Poor boys, poor boys, how many I have seen suffer. You kept right on in the studio then while your mother lived.”