"I tell you what I want to do," she said. "I want to go up there and see
things for myself. It's silly stayin' here with a pack of old maids as
though we were at the seaside in England. I want to go up the river and
see the natives in their camps. It's only a matter of ten days under
canvas. My husband's done it. One would lie out under the trees at night
and be towed down the river by day, and if we saw anythin' nice we'd
shout out and tell 'em to stop." She rose and began piercing the bed
again and again with a long golden pin, as she watched to see what
effect her suggestion had upon Rachel.

"We must make up a party," she went on. "Ten people could hire a launch.
Now you'll come, and Mrs. Ambrose'll come, and will Mr. Hirst and
t'other gentleman come? Where's a pencil?"

She became more and more determined and excited as she evolved her plan.
She sat on the edge of the bed and wrote down a list of surnames, which
she invariably spelt wrong. Rachel was enthusiastic, for indeed the idea
was immeasurably delightful to her. She had always had a great desire to
see the river, and the name of Terence threw a lustre over the prospect,
which made it almost too good to come true. She did what she could to
help Mrs. Flushing by suggesting names, helping her to spell them, and
counting up the days of the week upon her fingers. As Mrs. Flushing
wanted to know all she could tell her about the birth and pursuits of
every person she suggested, and threw in wild stories of her own as to
the temperaments and habits of artists, and people of the same name who
used to come to Chillingley in the old days, but were doubtless not the
same, though they too were very clever men interested in Egyptology, the
business took some time.

At last Mrs. Flushing sought her diary for help, the method of reckoning