He laughed delightedly.
"Oh, Amarilly, you little gamin! You have the right idea, though. We
don't want anything, however perfect it may be, all the time. We want it
just 'in patches'--as you say. You'll love the country with your whole
heart and soul when you come to see it if you know that you can leave
it. But this is a big change in your affairs, and we must talk it over.
We'll go to Carter's again for luncheon. Take off your apron and cap.
You won't have to fix your hair this time. It's even more beautiful than
it was then. Your frock, if it is cheap and plain, is artistic in cut
and color."
Amarilly felt cheered in spite of herself at his exuberant manner, but
burst into tears when on leaving the studio he casually remarked: "So this is almost the last of your work here! I can never hope to get
such another housekeeper as you. I shall have to eat out again."
At sight of her grief he took hold of her arm almost roughly.
"Amarilly, you little goose, do you suppose I am going to let you be
exiled to a farm and lapse into the vernacular of the Boarder? Now, buck
up and trust to the judgment and affection of your twin brother."
Amarilly, wondering but hopeful, "bucked up," and they walked in silence
to Carter's, where Derry ordered a private dining-room and luncheon.
Then: "Now, listen my child, and you shall hear, not of the midnight ride of
Paul Revere, but of the sad story of the life of your twin brother. My
parents died when I was too young to grieve for them. They are only a
faint memory. I had a cold-blooded, sensible guardian who put me into a
boys' school, from which I went to college, and then for a year in
Paris. He didn't let me know the amount of my inheritance. Consequently
I really worked and worked hard at the only thing I cared for and formed
no extravagant tastes. Neither was I courted and flattered by parasites.
"On my return from Paris, a year before I met you, I came into my
mother's fortune, and recently I have received the one left me by my
father. Having been brought up to live a comparatively simple life, in
the belief that I would be dependent on my own exertions, I have more
money than I know what to do with as yet. I have no one, not even a
fifth cousin, to be interested in. I have any number of acquaintances,
but no really intimate friends, so I have no one to help me spend and
enjoy my money.