That was the girl I live
with--Miss Bonnicastle. She's very nice really--not a bit of
harm in her; but she will play these silly practical jokes."
"Ah, it was a joke?" said Irene, not altogether pleased with Miss
Bonnicastle's facetiousness. But the next moment, good humour coming
to her help, she broke into merriment.
"That's what she does," said Olga, pointing to the walls. "She's
awfully clever really, and she'll make a great success with that
sort of thing before long, I'm sure. Look at that advertisement of
Honey's Castor Oil. Isn't the child's face splendid?"
"Very clever indeed," assented Irene, and laughed again, her cousin
joining in her mirth. Five minutes ago she had felt anything but
hilarious; the impulse to gaiety came she knew not how, and she
indulged it with a sense of relief.
"Are you doing the same sort of thing, Olga?"
"Wish I could. I've a little work for a new fashion paper; have to
fill in the heads and arms, and so on. It isn't high art, you know,
but they pay me."
"Why in the world do you do it? _Why_ do you live in a place like
this?"
"Oh, I like the life; on the whole. It's freedom; no society
nonsense--I beg your pardon, Irene----"
"Please don't. I hope I'm not much in the way of society nonsense.
Sit down; I want to talk. When did you see your mother?"
"Not for a long time," answered Olga, her countenance falling.
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