“Rot!” The word left her mouth like the crack of a whip. Mrs. Carey Below was getting angry. “This isn’t Paris. You can’t buy dominoes like jujubes. They don’t sell them by the pound.”
“I know,” said Peregrine quietly. “I’m very sorry, dear. If you could spare me Pickford for half an hour . . .”
“I must. You’ve forced my hand. My dress must go by the board, while yours is made.” She raised her voice. “Pickford!”
The bedroom door opened, and the maid came in.
“Did you call, madam?”
“Mr. Below has nothing to wear to-night. He will get the material, and you must make him a dress. How many yards do you want?”
Pickford considered.
Then—
“Six, madam, single width, or three double.”
Her mistress addressed Peregrine.