Philip did not like that even a reasonable peace-making interpreter
should come between him and Sylvia, so he held his tongue in
indignant silence.

Hester went on:

'To be sure, this gray is the closer make, and would wear the
longest.'

'I don't care,' said Sylvia, still rejecting the dull gray. 'I like
this best. Eight yards, if you please, miss.'

'A cloak takes nine yards, at least,' said Philip, decisively.

'Mother told me eight,' said Sylvia, secretly conscious that her
mother would have preferred the more sober colour; and feeling that
as she had had her own way in that respect, she was bound to keep to
the directions she had received as to the quantity. But, indeed, she
would not have yielded to Philip in anything that she could help.

There was a sound of children's feet running up the street from the
river-side, shouting with excitement. At the noise, Sylvia forgot
her cloak and her little spirit of vexation, and ran to the
half-door of the shop. Philip followed because she went. Hester
looked on with passive, kindly interest, as soon as she had
completed her duty of measuring. One of those girls whom Sylvia had
seen as she and Molly left the crowd on the quay, came quickly up
the street. Her face, which was handsome enough as to feature, was
whitened with excess of passionate emotion, her dress untidy and
flying, her movements heavy and free. She belonged to the lowest