It's laced up the back in the very latest.'

'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.'

It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost
indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically.

'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It's not
bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it's
chiffon.'

'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.'

'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your face less of
a homely look?'

'I'm sure I could.'

'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will
depend on the effect.'

He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not alone, for
she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and dreadful fears. They beam on
her and jeer at her, they pull her this way and that; with difficulty
she breaks through them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and
a looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows her
staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, licking her palm,
and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are sparkling.

* * * * *