After dinner the paper still suggested Dally so much, as aforesaid, with its wreaths and flowers that as Joe Chegg worked away he had slowly achieved to the hanging of three pieces, when Mrs Berens, all silk and scent and lace, rustled into the room to see how he was getting on.
“Why, Joe,” she exclaimed; “you’ve hung it upside down!”
It was no wonder, for ever since he had seen Dally that morning, Joe Chegg had been upside down.
He did not, like Mr Sullivan’s immortalised British workman, say, “It’ll be all right when it’s dry,” but looked sheepish, and stared hard at the paper, to see that the roses were all hanging their heads, and the stems pointing straight up.
“Upside down, ma’am?” he said, with a feeble smile.
“Yes, Joe; and you a gardener. Now, did you ever see flowers grow like that?”
“When they’ve come unnailed, ma’am,” said Joe, with a happy thought.
“Nonsense, man! It looks ridiculous.”
“Shall I peel it off, ma’am?”
“No; absurd! You must paper all over that again. It’s just so much waste of paper-hanging. There, don’t stare, man, but go on.”