“I dare say you’re right, you know, Nichola,” Hobart was saying gravely.
She was almost out of the room but she turned, rolling her hands in her apron.
“Since Bible days I was right,” she said, and leaning forward, nodding her head at every word, to the utter amazement of Pelleas and me: “‘They helped everybody his neighbour,’” she quoted freely, “‘and everybody said to his brother, “You be of good courage.” So the carpenter encouraged the goldsmith; and the one that smoothed with the hammer, him that smote with the anvil.’ Che!” she cried; “you must start in that way and then some good will come. Do I not know? Some good will come, I say. It never, never fails.”
“Right, Nichola,” said Hobart, still gravely, “I haven’t a doubt of what you say.”
“The tea’s all gettin’ cold,” she added indifferently as she went between the curtains.
“Nichola and I,” Pelleas said in distress, “throw in our opinions with the tea, Hobart. They don’t come extra.” But he was smiling and so was Hobart and so was I, with my inevitable tear.
The next instant Nichola was at the portières again.
“The leddy with canaries in her head is in the lib’ry,” she said.
“Canaries, Nichola?” I echoed.
“It’s the truth!” she proclaimed, “the one with canaries singin’ in her head till it shows through,” and instantly she vanished.