She hastened to make amends.
"There, there, Alma, I beg yer pardon, I'm sure. I hain't--er--I
haven't meant ter keep ye talkin' on such triflin' things, dear.
Now talk ter us yer self. Tell us about things--anythin'--anythin' on
the table or in the room," she finished feverishly.
For a moment the merry-faced girl stared in frank amazement at her
mother; then she laughed gleefully.
"On the table? In the room?" she retorted. "Well, it's the dearest room
ever, and looks so good to me! As for the table--the rolls are feathers,
the coffee is nectar, and the strawberries--well, the strawberries are
just strawberries--they couldn't be nicer."
"Oh, Alma, but I didn't mean----"
"Tut, tut, tut!" interrupted Alma laughingly. "Just as if the cook
didn't like her handiwork praised! Why, when I draw a picture--oh, and I
haven't told you!" she broke off excitedly. The next instant she was on
her feet. "Alma Mead Kelsey, Illustrator; at your service," she
announced with a low bow. Then she dropped into her seat again and went
on speaking.
"You see, I've been doing this sort of thing for some time," she
explained, "and have had some success in selling. My teacher has always
encouraged me, and, acting on his advice, I stayed over in New York a
week with a friend, and took some of my work to the big publishing
houses.
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