Having taken two of the handkerchiefs, she shut the wardrobe and turned
the key. She went first to her own small, prim room to restore stolen
property to its rightful place, and then she descended towards the
kitchen with the other handkerchief. Giving it to her mother, and
concealing her triumph beneath a mask of wise, long-suffering
benevolence, she would say: "I've found ten of your handkerchiefs,
mother. Here's one!" And her mother, ingenuously startled and pleased,
would exclaim: "Where, child?" And she, still controlling herself, as
befitted a superior being, would reply casually: "In your wardrobe, of
course! You stuck to it there weren't any; but I was sure there were."


II

The dialogue which actually did accompany the presentation of the
handkerchief, though roughly corresponding to her rehearsal of it, was
lacking in the dramatic pungency necessary for a really effective
triumph; the reason being that the thoughts of both mother and daughter
were diverted in different ways from the handkerchief by the presence of
Florrie in the kitchen.

Florrie was the new servant, and she had come into the house that
morning. Sponsored by an aunt who was one of the best of the Calder
Street tenants, Florrie had been accepted rather unwillingly, the
objection to her being that she was too young--thirteen and a half. Mrs.
Lessways had a vague humanitarian sentiment against the employment of
children; as for Hilda's feeling, it was at one moment more
compassionate even than her mother's, and at another almost cynically
indifferent. The aunt, however, a person of powerful common sense, had
persuaded Mrs. Lessways that the truest kindness would be to give