Thurley obeyed, coming back to her chair to examine the box. “How good you are!” she said, as she came upon a little blue leather and gold faced clock not much bigger than a revenue stamp.
“A practice clock when you go on deadly tours. Tuck it in your bag as a memento and years hence you can say, ‘Ernestine Christian—rest her bones for they seldom rested when I knew her—gave it to me in my salad days.’ One can always use such trifles. That reminds me, I have a beaver jacket Polly may be induced to accept; write ‘Polly—jacket’ on that pad so I’ll remember. I’ll hunt her up to-morrow. Caleb says she has been doing supe work in the movies; tough luck for any one but Polly. But I’ve no doubt she fancies it gains inspiration for her for the America opera.
“So! Bliss says a nice word occasionally and you like Sam Sparling—one of God’s own, Thurley—now _he_ believes in Santa Claus. And you think Collin Patmore’s pictures superb? Wait until you see his house—Parva Sed Apta he has named it—and his garden! There is a fierce rivalry between Collin’s garden and Caleb’s and likewise their houses. Collin dubs his a château and I think Caleb claims his is a really true lodge! Funny boys! We’ll go up there in the summer and see for ourselves. Oh, yes, Thurley, tell me about Miss Clergy! I want to ask her if I may take you abroad this summer; three months across would do wonders for you. Bliss mentioned it before I went away. I want to see your eyes the first time you gaze at the Alhambra in the moonlight. We’ll give Italy half our time, a few weeks in Paris and six days in London. You’ll return not knowing yourself.”
“But the money? When, oh, when can I earn?” Thurley asked in distress.
“Don’t bother about money; just let me tell you what to pack and what to leave behind. Collin goes to sketch near Barcelona and we may take the same steamer over—wouldn’t that be a lark? Collin is the nicest courier I know, besides being the greatest portrait painter. I suppose he will give his next season’s subjects Spanish coloring and a red rose just tumbling off their left ear à la Carmen. One year he did Russia and I vow every western society woman he painted had the mysterious air of stilettos concealed in fans and poisoned cigarettes that Moscow alone can impart. He’ll run out of countries by and by, as France, Italy and England are old stories.”