'One was my mother's, and the other my father's, sir,' said Gladys, rising and presenting the coat with a deep curtsey.
Mrs Prothero was absorbed in her letter.
'Name o' goodness where did your father get such a name? and where do you live?'
The girl bent her head over the coat she held in her hand, and her tears fell upon it.
'There, never mind? give me my coat. Thank you. Why, Lewis the tailor 'ouldn't 'a mended it better. Why, girl, where did you learn tailoring?'
'Mother taught me to mend everything, sir.'
'There then, take you that old hat and see if you can make as good a job of sewing on the brim as you done of the coat. Mother, come you here, I want to speak to you.'
Mr Prothero left the room, and Mrs Prothero followed.
'Who's that girl, mother? I never saw her before,' were his first words in the passage, whilst pulling to the coat that he had begun to put on in the work-room.
'Why, David, you see—it is—there now, don't be angry.'