"Liosha has just gone for her with a pair of scissors."
"Horrible!" said I, getting the ends even. "I can imagine nothing more finnikin in ghastliness than to cut anybody's throat with nail scissors, especially when the subject is unwilling."
Barbara pished and pshawed. It was no occasion for levity.
"I agree," said I. The dressing hour is the calmest and most philosophic period of the day.
Barbara came up to me blue eyed and innocent, and with a traitorous jerk, undid my beautiful white bow.
"There, now listen."
And I, dilapidated wretch, had to listen to the tale of crime. It appeared that Reynolds, my wife's maid, in putting Liosha into a ready-made gown—a model gown I believe is the correct term—insisted on her being properly corseted. Liosha, agonisingly constricted, rebelled. The maid was obdurate. Liosha flew at her with a pair of scissors. I think I should have done the same. Reynolds bolted from the room. So should I have done. I sympathised with both of them. Reynolds fled to her mistress, and, declaring it to be no part of her duty to wait on tigers, gave notice.
"We can't lose Reynolds," said I.
"Of course we can't."
"And we can't pack Liosha off at a moment's notice, so as to please Reynolds."