"I should think so. Or p'raps garsping. Your hair'd be black and plastered, and there'd be little bits of things clinging to you."
Theresa clapped her hands. "Oh, you are good at it!"
But Grace cried: "No, no. It's horrid. Be quiet. It's much worse than the porridge. You're spoiling the bread and butter now!"
"We'll wait till we're alone, Bessie," Theresa said with a confidential nod.
When she had helped Grace to make the beds—the one piece of discipline on which their mother insisted—Theresa went into the little-used drawing-room to watch for her father. It was a dreary room in which a fire was seldom lighted except on Christmas Day, and even in summer-time it smelt of cold. The chairs were what Theresa called "rheumatic" on account of the twisted nature of their legs, and the clock, which stood on the mantelpiece and was never wound, presented a supercilious face to anyone who entered. On the walls there were a few faded watercolour sketches which might have been of anywhere, and a chiffonier, filled with odds and ends, stood opposite the fireplace. An empty photograph-frame on a wicker table was emblematic of the place. When Theresa went there she always propped open the door, because she said the room made her feel so lonely, and this though, as Bessie pointed out, there was a portrait of a maternal grandparent on either side of the hearth.
She opened the window wide and leaned out until she was in danger of falling into the area, but finding she could not see far enough down the street, she ran out at the front door and on to the mossy old pavement. It seemed a long time before she saw her father turn the corner of Chesterfield Row, and wave his hand to her.
She ran to meet him. "Hullo, hullo!"
"Well, autumn leaf?" He bent to kiss her, and with a hand on his shoulder she whispered: "Did you get it? You know what!"
"Yes," he said, "I did. A very good one."
"Tell me!"