His wife stared.
“You wish I wouldn’t—what do you mean?” Peregrine stood silent. “You’d better pull yourself together, hadn’t you?”
Peregrine sought the door.
“I’ll go and get the stuff,” he said shakily.
“Stop!” Mrs. Below’s voice was vibrating with passion. “I’m not going to try to teach you manners, because it’s waste of time: but you said just now that entertainments weren’t in your line. Well, kindly remember that lectures aren’t in mine—even when delivered by imitation wash-outs. I can stand an undertaker—in his place: I can even bear Little Lord Fauntleroy: but a cross between the two on his hind legs is just a shade too thick even for me.”
For a moment her husband hesitated, pale-faced.
Then he opened the door and passed out.
That Miss Atlee’s maid should sit and talk with Pickford while the latter was doing her work was natural enough, and when she produced some silk to make a frill for the hood of Peregrine’s gown Mrs. Below’s maid was delighted with the attention.
“It’ll give the ole long-cloth a flip,” explained Miss Mason. “Won’ look so much like a shraoud. There’s enough fer a pair o’ cuffs too, while we’re abaout it.”