Her gaze was fixed on the blue Bay,
where rested the huge British warship "Consternation," surrounded by a
section of the United States squadron seated like white swans in the
water. Sails of snow glistened here and there on the bosom of the Bay,
while motor-boats and what-not darted this way and that impudently
among the stately ships of the fleet.
In one corner of the room stood a sewing-machine, and on the long
table were piles of mimsy stuff out of which feminine creations are
constructed. There was no carpet on the floor, and no ceiling
overhead; merely the bare rafters and the boards that bore the pine
shingles of the outer roof; yet this attic was notable for the
glorious view to be seen from its window. It was an ideal workshop.
The elder girl, as she walked to and fro, spoke with nervous
irritation in her voice.
"There is absolutely no excuse, mamma, and it's weakness in you to
pretend that there may be. The woman has been gone for hours. There's
her lunch on the table which has never been tasted, and the servant
brought it up at twelve."
She pointed to a tray on which were dishes whose cold contents bore
out the truth of her remark.
"Perhaps she's gone on strike," said the younger daughter, without
removing her eyes from H.M.S. "Consternation." "I shouldn't wonder if
we went downstairs again we'd find the house picketed to keep away
blacklegs."
"Oh, you can always be depended on to talk frivolous nonsense," said
her elder sister scornfully.
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