"I thought Marguerite was dressed, she looks very grand."
"It is the ribbons of my nightingale which have deceived you, I have only that and my nightdress on. I can hardly appear in so scanty an attire."
"Give 'em something to talk about."
"Father," I said, "will you go." And growling and grumbling he went in search of mother, presumably to have a row.
The sunshine streamed into the room, the tits chattered, and a robin blithely showed what could be done with a range of eight notes: tweet, tweet, ta ra ra tweet, tre la, tre la, ta ra ra tweet.
"Listen, Jane," I said, "it is singing to you. Isn't it a lovely day! I'm so glad the sun is shining. Are you happy, Jane?"
"Yes," she said simply, dropping a kiss on to my hair, which she was gently brushing. "I'm too happy to talk about it; and I must hurry, Dimbie will be here in a minute, he has got something for you."
And there he was, peeping through the door with Amelia close behind him. In his arms was a large cardboard box.
"It's a new tea-gown straight from Paris, mum," said Amelia, excitedly, as Dimbie removed the lid. "There were twenty to choose from," added Jane, "and we were over an hour in settlin' on it," completed Amelia.
Very carefully Dimbie removed all the folds of soft, white paper, and shook out the gown—a lovely mass of pearly satin, soft as the petals of a rose, and marvellous old lace of cobweb transparency and texture.