pped a quantity of beads, brooches, earrings, bracelets, tassels, and
combs among the draperies. Then she went back to her stool and began to
paint in silence. The stuffs were coloured and dark and pale; they made
a curious swarm of lines and colours upon the counterpane, with
the reddish lumps of stone and peacocks' feathers and clear pale
tortoise-shell combs lying among them.

"The women wore them hundreds of years ago, they wear 'em still," Mrs.
Flushing remarked. "My husband rides about and finds 'em; they don't
know what they're worth, so we get 'em cheap. And we shall sell 'em to
smart women in London," she chuckled, as though the thought of these
ladies and their absurd appearance amused her. After painting for
some minutes, she suddenly laid down her brush and fixed her eyes upon
Rachel.

"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,