"There is no time like the present," said Miss Phoebe, in her most
gracious tone. "It will be a pleasure, I assure you, Doctor Strong,
to look over any portions of your wardrobe, and give you such advice
as I can. I always made my honoured father's shirts after my dear
mother's death, so I am, perhaps, not wholly unfitted for this
congenial task. Ah, machine-made!"

"Beg pardon!" said Geoffrey, who had been listening to something else.

"These shirts were made with the aid of the sewing-machine, I
perceive," said Miss Phoebe. "No--oh, no, it is nothing unusual.
Very few persons, I believe, make shirts entirely by hand in these
days. I always set the same number of stitches in my father's shirts,
five thousand and sixty. He always said that no machine larger than
a cambric needle should touch his linen."

"Then--you don't think they are worth new collars?" said Geoffrey,
abstractedly.

"Did I convey that impression?" said Miss Phoebe, with mild surprise.
"I had no such intention, Doctor Strong. I think that a skilful
person, with some knowledge of needlework, could make these garments
(though machine-made) last some months yet. You see, Doctor Strong,
if she takes this--"

It was a neat and well-sustained little oration that Miss Phoebe
delivered, emphasising her remarks with the cuff of a shirt; but it
was lost on Geoffrey Strong. He was listening to another voice that
came quavering up from the garden below, a sweet high voice, like a
wavering thread of silver. No more sobs; and Miss Vesta was singing;