They put her in a bath and washed her. The soap smelled so good that surreptitiously she got hold of the cake and nosed it like a young dog. They dried her in warm towels, and slipped a night-dress over her meagre shoulders. It was then, perhaps, that fingering the gossamer thing, taking up a bunch of stuff in her fist and slowly letting it go, in a dreamy wonder, she first began to realize that she was on the threshold of a new life. Not even the soft bed or the delicious chicken-broth that was brought later eclipsed the effect produced by the night-dress. It had embroidery and all sorts of blue ribbons—an epoch-making garment.
Some time later, the maid, having drawn the curtains and smoothed her pillow and tucked her in, said:
“If you want anything in the night, just touch that bell, and I 'll come to you.”
Unity looked at her half comprehendingly. “Ring a bell? I should n't dare.”
“Why?”
“It's only missuses that ring bells.”
“Those are Lady Blount's orders, anyway,” laughed the maid. “'Ere,” said Unity, with a beckoning finger. “What are they treating me like this for?”
So might a succulently fed sailor have suspiciously interrogated one of a cannibal tribe.
“How else would you want them to treat you?” asked the unpercipient maid. “You 've come down here to get well, have n't you?” She bent down and tied a loosened ribbon in a bow. “I declare if you have n't got on one of Miss Stella's nighties!”
“Who is Miss Stella?” asked Unity.