"
"I never grant anything to pertinacity," answered Lady Barbara. "I
have told you that I cannot go with you to-day, and you ought to
submit."
"But the birthday, Aunt Barbara!"
"I have answered you once, Katharine; you ought to know better than
to persist."
Kate pouted, and the tears swelled in her eyes at the cruelty of
depriving her of the pleasure of making her purchase, and at having
her beautiful fanciful production thus ruined by her aunt's
unkindness. As she sat over her geography lesson, out of sight of
her own bad writing, her broken-backed illuminated capitals, her
lumpy campanulas, crooked-winged fairies, queer perspective, and dabs
of blue paint, she saw her performance not as it was, but as it was
meant to be, heard her own lines without their awkward rhymes and
bits like prose, and thought of the wonder and admiration of all the
Wardour family, and of the charms of having it secretly lent about as
a dear simple sweet effusion of the talented young countess, who
longed for rural retirement. And down came a great tear into the red
trimming of British North America, and Kate unadvisedly trying to
wipe it up with her handkerchief, made a red smear all across to Cape
Verd! Formerly she would have exclaimed at once; now she only held
up the other side of the book that her aunt might not see, and felt
very shabby all the time. But Lady Barbara was reading over a
letter, and did not look.
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