There was a dainty pink frock on the bed, with white cuffs and collar: very simply and plainly made, but well cut in every line. Near it was underwear: plain also, but good, and beautifully ironed. A pair of black shoes accompanied neat black stockings: a straw hat, swathed with palest pink muslin, lay on the pillow. There was even a pretty handkerchief on the frock. Nothing had been forgotten.
"Do you like it?"
"Like it! Why, it's like the inside of a shell! I never seen such a lovely colour. But you do always have pretty things, Missus."
"I'm glad you like it," Aileen said. "Because it isn't mine, 'Possum. I made it for you."
'Possum flushed to the roots of her hair, staring at her.
"Me!" she said at last. "I say, you're gammoning, aren't you, Missus?"
"No, I'm not," Aileen said. "I've had terrible work keeping those things out of your sight—and it has been such fun making them!" She watched the flushed face uneasily. "You're not cross with me, 'Possum?"
"Cross with you!" 'Possum uttered. "Well, I would be a beast. But I'd rather not take them, thank you very much, all the same."
"But why?" Aileen flushed in her turn.
There was a pause.