can't be much skill
required, and we with our trained intelligence will soon overcome any
difficulty," I said grandiloquently. "All we want is a pot of paste,
and a pair of big scissors, and a table to lay the strips of paper on.
I've seen it done scores of times."

"So have I," said Lorna. "And doesn't the paste smell! I expect, what
with that and the enamel, we shall have no appetites left. It will
spoil our complexions, too, very likely, and make us pale and sallow,
but that doesn't matter."

I thought it mattered a good deal. It was all very well for her, but
she wasn't staying with a friend who had an interesting grown-up
brother. Even the finest natures can be inconsiderate sometimes.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

_September 23rd_.
The next morning we went to a paperhanger's shop and asked to see the
very newest and most artistic designs in stock. There were lots of
lovely things, but after great discussion we decided on a thick white
paper, perfectly plain, except in each corner of the room, where there
was a sort of conventional rose tree, growing up about seven feet high,
with outstanding branches laden with the most exquisite pink roses. The
white of the background was partly tinged with blue, with here and there
a soft, irregular blue like a cloud. Looking up suddenly, you might
imagine you were in the open air in the midst of a rose garden, and that
would be a very pleasant delusion in Onslow Square.

The salesman asked how many pieces he should send, and whether we wished
it hung at once. When I said we intended to hang it ourselves, he
said--

"Oh, indeed, madam!" and looked unutterable things.

We were so quelled that we did not dare to ask him about the enamel and
paste as we intended, but bought those at a modest little shop further
on, and went home rejoicing.

Mrs Forbes had laughed and shaken all over in the most jovial manner
when we told her of our plans, but she didn't approve of the white paper
and paint, because, forsooth, it would get soiled. Of course it would
get soiled! Things always do sooner or later. Old people are so
dreadfully prudent that they get no pleasure out of life. When this
paper is shabby Lorna can get a new one, or she may be married, or dead,
or half a dozen different things. It's absurd to plan years ahead. I
cheered up poor Lorna, who is of a sensitive nature and easily
depressed, and when she recove