Ellen was sitting on the bolster, in her little old plain linen nightdress buttoning to her neck, two long plaits hanging over her shoulders. The light of the rose-shaded lamp streamed on the flowery walls and floor of her compulsory bower, showing the curtains and pictures and vases and father's Buffalo certificate—showing also her packed and corded trunks, lying there like big, blobbed seals on her articles of emancipation.
"Hullo," she said to Joanna, "I'm just going to get in." She did not seem particularly pleased to see her.
"You pop under the clothes, and I'll tuck you up. There's something I want to speak to you about if you ain't too sleepy."
"About what?"
"About this wedding of yours."
"You've spoken to me about nothing else for weeks and months."
"But I want to speak to you different and most particular. Duckie, are you quite sure you love Arthur Alce?"
"Of course I'm sure, or I shouldn't be marrying him."
"There's an unaccountable lot of reasons why any gal ud snap at Arthur. He's got a good name and a good establishment, and he's as mild-mannered and obliging as a cow."
Ellen looked disconcerted at hearing her bridegroom thus defined.