CHAPTER VII
THE OFFER
"Well, it ain't none of my business," said Mrs. Rickett, with a sniff.
"Nor it ain't yours either. But did you ever know anyone as wore anything
the likes of that before?"
She shook out for her husband's inspection a filmy garment that had the
look of a baby's robe that had grown up, before spreading it on her
kitchen table to iron.
"Ah!" said Rickett, ramming a finger into the bowl of his pipe. "What
sort of a thing is that now?"
"What sort of a thing, man? Why, a night-dress--of course! What d'you
think?" Mrs. Rickett chuckled at his ignorance. "And that flimsy--why I'm
almost afraid to touch it. It's the quality, you see."
"Ah!" said the smith vaguely.
Mrs. Rickett tested the iron near her cheek. "And it's only the quality,"
she resumed, as she began to use it, "as wears such things as these. Why,
I shouldn't wonder but what they came from Paris. They must have cost a
mint of money."
"Ah!" said Rickett again.
"She's as nice-spoken a young lady as I've met," resumed his wife. "No
pride about her, you know. She's just simple and friendly-like. Yet I'd
like to see the man as'd take a liberty with her all the same.
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