She felt that she did not wish Rosy to hear of it, and yet she
did not like to ask Mr. Furnivale not to mention it, as it seemed
ungrateful to think or speak of a visit from Miss Vincent except with
pleasure. After luncheon, when they were again in the drawing-room,
Mr. Furnivale came up to her with a small parcel in his hand.
"I am so sorry," he began, with a little hesitation, "I am so sorry
that I did not know Beata Warwick was with you. Cecy had no idea of
it, and she begged me to give _your_ little girl this present we
bought for her in Venice, and now I don't half like giving it to the
one little woman when I have nothing for the other."
He opened the parcel as he spoke; it contained a quaint-looking little
box, which in its turn, when opened, showed a necklace of glass beads
of every imaginable colour. They were not very large--each bead
perhaps about the size of a pea--of a large pea, that is to say. And
some of them were long, not thicker, but twice as long as the others.
I can scarcely tell you how pretty they were. Every one was different,
and they were beautifully arranged so that the colours came together
in the prettiest possible way. One was pale blue with little tiny
flowers, pink or rose-coloured raised upon it; one was white with a
sort of rainbow glistening of every colour through it; two or three
were black, but with a different tracery, gold or red or bright green,
on each; and some were a kind of mixture of colours and patterns which
seemed to change as you looked at them, so that you could _fancy_
you saw flowers, or figures, or tiny landscapes even, which again
disappeared--and no two the same.
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