I wavered, and looked consultingly at Pelleas.
It is one sign of our advancing years, we must believe, that Pelleas and I dislike to be laughed at. Our old servant scolds us all day long and we are philosophical; but if she laughs at either of us Pelleas grieves and I rage. Nichola’s “You’ll be laughed at for fashionable” humbled me.
Pelleas, the morning sun shining on his hair, was picking dead leaves from the begonias in the window and pretended not to hear.
I looked longingly at my white lady’s-cloth gown but Nichola was already folding it away. It had ruffles of lace and a chiffon fichu and was altogether most magnificent. I had had it made for a winter wedding and as it had not been worn since, I was openly anxious to reappear in it. And now on occasion of this visit to Cousin Diantha at Paddington Nichola threatened me with remorse if I so much as took it with me. I would be “laughed at for fashionable!”
However, Pelleas continuing to pick dead leaves in a cowardly fashion, there would have been no help for me had not Nichola at that moment been called from the room by the poultry wagon which drew up at our door like a god from a cloud. Our steamer-trunk, carefully packed, stood open before me with room enough and to spare for my white lady’s-cloth gown.
“Pelleas!” I cried impulsively.
He looked round inquiringly, pretending to have been until that moment vastly absorbed.
“If I put the gown in,” I cried excitedly, “will you strap the trunk before she gets back?”
Pelleas wrinkled his eyes at the corners, and it was the look that means whatever I mean.
In a twinkling the gown was out of its tissues and tumbled in place in a fashion which would have scandalized me if I had been feeling less adventuresome. Pelleas, whose hands could have trembled with no more sympathy if he had been expecting to appear in the gown too, fastened the straps and turned the key and we hurried downstairs. On the landing we met Nichola.