— XXVIII —A WOMAN ELOQUENT
The room which Miss Foster called her ‘den,’ and in which she, presumably, spent a considerable portion of her life, was an apartment about ten feet square, which was so encumbered with furniture of a peculiar kind that there was no room in it for anything else. She had acquired the knack of finding space in it for herself somehow, but her friends, less accustomed to the exigencies of the situation, were apt to show by their demeanour that their sense of comfort was to seek. The more familiar were the terms of friendship on which they stood, the more emphatic was the expression of their discontent.
“If you’d only let me drop three-quarters of this rubbish out of the window,” her brother would observe, “one might be able to move about.”
“My dear Sidney,” his si
