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I hasten to say that these were not Portia's words; all the same, what
Portia did say, formed a basis for Rose's unspoken caricature.
"Millionaires have legs," she said aloud. "I bet they can walk around
like anybody else. However, I don't care who he is, if he'll send back
my books."
Portia went back presently to the shop, and it wasn't long after that
that her mother came down-stairs clad for the street, with her _Modern
Tendencies_ under her arm in a leather portfolio.
It had turned cold overnight, and there was a buffeting gusty wind which
shook the windows and rattled the stiff branches of the trees. Her
mother's valedictory, given with more confidence now that Portia was out
of the house, was a strong recommendation that Rose stay quietly within
doors and keep warm.
The girl might have palmed off her own inclination as an example of
filial obedience, but she didn't.
"I was going to, anyway," she said. "Home and fireside for mine to-day."
Ordinarily, the gale would have tempted her.


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