The afternoon was marked by the white fluff of last year's cotton-wool which pervaded carpets and chairs, and which Darby said was worse than snuff. Fresh holly duly dabbed with glass and ground sugar added a stickiness to which the fluff clung lovingly.
They all worked in the servants' hall, a long room in the basement, with a stone floor which chilled through meagre rugs, and took a heavy tea there flavoured with gum and fluff.
This was all a yearly amusement, generally tempered by piles of new and snowy cotton-wool for the texts.
"But this year we are not neglecting the beauty of the church, and still are saving money for the war," said Mrs. Keefe piously. "I wonder if the fluff will ever go off us again? That 'Unto Us' will look quite beautiful, especially if the sun doesn't shine on the 'Son'; that word is dreadfully yellow. If you put on more berries, Gheena, no one will know what it's meant for."
"And they'll think of German measles, too," said Darby gravely. "Mrs. Weston, you're the worst stitcher I've ever seen."
Violet Weston was clamping holly leaves to a piece of red calico nailed between two painted pieces of wood. They were intended to cover a pencilled text decorously, but instead were straying drunkenly off the lettering and leaping hopelessly up again, until a cypher message was the result.
"They prick so," said Mrs. Weston resentfully. "And we've all got to put them up to-morrow because you're hunting on Saturday. If they only were calico letters, but real holly." She sucked a finger. "That bay horse of mine is a very funny horse," she went on. "He stands still when he's tired, and gulps."
"He was pretty bad last year," said Darby sympathetically. "But you can turn him over for his own riding, you see, and get even that way."
Mrs. Weston dropped a lapful of holly leaves and stared with puzzled eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Keefe didn't know," she said blithely, "and here he is with Mr. Stafford." She looked swiftly at Gheena.