“I don’t see why, Pennie,” said her godmother hesitatingly, “we should not buy the material this afternoon.”
Pennie could see no reason against it, in fact it seemed natural to her that after you had thought of a thing you should go and do it at once. To Miss Unity, however, used to weigh and consider her smallest actions, there was something rash and headlong in it.
“Perhaps we had better think it over and do it to-morrow,” she said, pausing at the door of a linen-draper’s shop.
“Kettles wants clothes very badly,” said Pennie, “and I shall be a long while making them. I should think we’d better get it now. But shall you go to Bolton’s?” she added; “mother always goes to Smith’s.”
“Bolton’s” was a magnificent place in Pennie’s eyes. It was the largest shop in the High Street, and she had heard her mother call it extravagantly dear. Miss Unity, however, would not hear of going anywhere else. She had always dealt at Bolton’s; they supplied the materials for the Working Societies and the choristers’ surplices, and had always given satisfaction. So Pennie, with rather an awed feeling, followed her godmother into the shop, and was soon much interested in her purchases; also in the half-confidential and wholly respectful remarks made from time to time across the counter by Mrs Bolton, who had bustled forward to serve them. Her husband was a verger at the Cathedral, and this justified her in expressing an interest from a discreet distance in all that went on there.
“Quite a stir in the town since the bishop’s sermon, Miss,” she remarked as she placed a pile of calico on the counter. “I think this will suit your purpose—if not too fine.”
“I was thinking of unbleached,” said Miss Unity, “such as we use for the Working Societies. Yes, it was a very fine sermon.”
Mrs Bolton retired into the back of the shop, and reappeared with a boy carrying another large bale.
“This will be the article then,” she said, unrolling it, “and certainly more suitable too. Yes, there’s nothing talked of now but the missions. Is he a coloured gentleman, do you know, Miss, or does the climate produce that yellow look he has? Six yards, and some Welsh flannel. Thank you.”
It was rather alarming to Pennie to see such quantities of calico measured off without shape or make, and to think how far her needle would have to travel before it took the form of clothes for Kettles. She sat soberly eyeing it, and following the rapid course of Mrs Bolton’s scissors.