As the door slammed Ida burst into a shout of laughter. “You see, Clara,” she cried, “the charm works already. He has gone to number one instead of to number three. Oh, we shall win a great victory. You've been very good, dear; I could see that you were on thorns to help him when he was looking for his boots.”
“Poor papa! It is so cruel. And yet what are we to do?”
“Oh, he will enjoy being comfortable all the more if we give him a little discomfort now. What horrible work this chemistry is! Look at my frock! It is ruined. And this dreadful smell!” She threw open the window, and thrust her little golden-curled head out of it. Charles Westmacott was hoeing at the other side of the garden fence.
“Good morning, sir,” said Ida.
“Good morning!” The big man leaned upon his hoe and looked up at her.
“Have you any cigarettes, Charles?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Throw me up two.”
“Here is my case. Can you catch!”
A seal-skin case came with a soft thud on to the floor. Ida opened it. It was full.