Nichola says “matiknee,” and she regards a theater box as among all self-indulgences the unpardonable sin.
“You’ll have no luncheon to get, Nichola,” I persuasively reminded her.
Old Nichola clicked the wax candles.
“Me, I’d rather get up lunch for a fambly o’ shepherds,” she grimly assured me, “than to hev you lose your immortal soul at this late day.”
She went back to the kitchen and I was minded to take off the lavender velvet; but I did not do so, my religion being independent of the spectrum.
At noon Nichola was in the drawing-room fastening my gaiters when Miss Lillieblade came in, erect as a little brown and white toy with a chocolate cloak and a frosting hood.
“We are going to see ‘The End of the World,’” said Miss Willie blithely,—“I knew you haven’t seen it, Etarre.”
Old Nichola, who is so privileged that she will expect polite attention even on her death-bed, listened eagerly.
“Is it somethin’ of a religious play, mem?” she hopefully inquired.
“I dare say, Nichola,” replied Miss Willie kindly; and afterward, to me: “But I hope not. Religious plays are so ungodly.”