"
Clover went to the window to look at the mysterious object. It was a
cone-shaped thing of white unburned clay, whose use she could not guess.
She found later that it was a receptacle for ashes.
"I suppose _your_ rooms are front ones?" went on Mrs. Watson, querulously.
"Mine isn't. It's quite a little one at the side. I think it must be just
under this. Phil's is in front, and is a nice large one with a view of
the mountains. I wish there were one just like it for you. The doctor says
that it's very important for him to have a great deal of air in his room."
"Doctors always say that; and of course Dr. Hope, being a friend of yours
and all--It's quite natural he should give you the preference. Though the
Phillips's are accustomed--but there, it's no use; only, as I tell Ellen,
Boston is the place for me, where my family is known, and people realize
what I'm used to."
"I'm so sorry," Clover said again. "Perhaps somebody will go away, and
Mrs. Marsh have a front room for you before long."
"She did say that she might. I suppose she thinks some of her boarders
will be dying off. In fact, there is one--that tall man in gray in the
reclining-chair--who didn't seem to me likely to last long. Well, we will
hope for the best. I'm not one who likes to make difficulties."
This prospect, together with dinner, which was presently announced, raised
Mrs. Watson's spirits a little, and Clover left her in the parlor,
exchanging experiences and discussing symptoms with some ladies who had
sat opposite them at table.
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