roaring in your face, and the curtain drawn abaft.

Helen assumed the mathematical centre of the squab, and began to arrange
her skirts in cascading folds; she had posed her parasol in a corner of
it, as though the squab had been a railway carriage, which, indeed, it
did somewhat resemble.

"By the way, lass, what's that as swishes?" James demanded.

"What's what?"

"What's that as swishes?"

She looked puzzled for an instant, then laughed--a frank, gay laugh,
light and bright as aluminium, such as the kitchen had never before
heard.

"Oh!" she said. "It's my new silk petticoat, I suppose. You mean that?"
She brusquely moved her limbs, reproducing the unique and delicious
rustle of concealed silk.

"Ay!" ejaculated the old man, "I mean that."

"Yes. It's my silk petticoat. Do you like it?"

"I havena' seen it, lass."

She bent down, and lifted the hem of her dress just two inches--the
discreetest, the modestest gesture. He had a transient vision of
something fair--it was gone again.