"This is
a free country and a P.W.G. can work where she pleases, can't she?"
"P.W.G.?"
"Certainly, a poor working-girl"--Rose clasped her hands and bowed her
head--"if the initials fail to illuminate."
The Colonel inspected the room, and his eyes searched Miss Farrell's
desk.
"Let me see, I seem to miss something. It must be the literary offerings
that used to cluster about the scene of your labors. Your selections in
old times used to delight me. No one else of my acquaintance has quite
your feeling for romance. I always liked that one about the square-jawed
American engineer who won the Crown Princess of Piffle from her father
in a poker game, but decided at the last minute to bestow her upon his
old college friend, the Russian heir-apparent, just to preserve the
peace of Europe. I remember I found you crying over the great
renunciation one day."
"Oh, I've passed that all up, Colonel. I'm strong for the pale high-brow
business now. I'm doing time in all the night classes at Elizabeth House
where I board, and you'll hardly know your little Rose pretty soon."
"Fitting yourself for one of the learned professions?"
"Scarcely. Just fitting myself to be decent," replied Rose in a tone
that shifted the key of the conversation--a change which the Colonel
respected.
"That's right, Rose. This is a good place for you, and so is Mrs.
Pages:
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492