When the mothers had wordily gone, she threw open the windows, propped
the door wide with a chair, and went to tea. She had it alone.

"Your Pa's out a-parishing," said Letitia, bumping down the tray in
front of her.

"That's a let-off anyhow," said Betty to herself, and she propped up a
Stevenson against the tea-pot.

After tea parishioners strolled up by ones and twos and threes to
change their books at the Vicarage lending library. The books were
covered with black calico, and smelt of rooms whose windows were never
opened.

When she had washed the smell of the books off, she did her hair very
carefully in a new way that seemed becoming, and went down to supper.

Her step-father only spoke once during the meal; he was luxuriating in
the thought of the _Summa Theologiae_ of Aquinas in leather still
brown and beautiful, which he had providentially discovered in the
wash-house of an ailing Parishioner. When he did speak he said:

"How extremely untidy your hair is, Lizzie. I wish you would take more
pains with your appearance."

When he had withdrawn to his books she covered three new volumes for
the library: the black came off on her hands, but anyway it was clean
dirt.