He had gone into the parlour, had kissed her, and was disincumbering his pockets of various parcels: she helping him. Both were laughing, for there seemed to be no end to them. They contained articles wanted for the morrow: macaroons, and potted lampreys, and lots of good things.
“Don’t say again that I forget your commissions, Annet.”
“Never again, Frank. How good you are! But what is in this one? it feels soft.”
“That’s for yourself,” said Frank. “Open it.”
Cutting the string, the paper flew apart, disclosing a baby’s cloak of white braided cashmere. Annet laughed and blushed.
“Oh, Frank! How could you?”
“Why, I heard you say you must get one.”
“Yes—but—not just yet. It may not be wanted, you know.”
“Stuff! The thing was in Mrs. What’s-her-name’s window in High Street, staring passers-by in the face; so I went in, and bought it.”
“It’s too beautiful,” murmured Annet, putting it reverently into the paper, as if she mistook it for a baby. “And how has the day gone, Frank? Could you buy the sheep?”