Her eyes delighted in
soft, rich colours, and she was never weary of turning them over and
over, trying them on, and "playing s'pose" with them.
"S'pose," she would say, "my poor mamma was going to a banquet, like
the Capulet one, or Macbeth's. Oh, no! 'cause that would have been
horrid, with ghosts and daggers and things. S'pose it was the
Capulets! Then she would put on this pink silk. Isn't it pretty, and
soft, and creamy? Just like the wild roses on the south side of the
meadow, that I made a wreath of for Imogen on her birthday. Dear
Imogen! it was _so_ becoming to her. Well, so my poor mamma put it
on--_so_! and then she paced through the hall, and all the lords
turned round and said, 'Mark'st thou yon lady?' 'Cause she was so
beautiful, you know. _This_ is the way she paced!" and then the little
creature would fall to pacing up and down the room, dragging the
voluminous pink folds behind her, her head thrown back, and a look
of delighted pride lighting up her small face.
It was the funniest little place, this room of Star's, the queerest,
quaintest little elfin bower! It was built out from the south side
of the tower, almost like a swallow's nest, only a swallow's nest
has no window looking out on the blue sea.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64