While she was making this smug little speech Jethro looked at her with satisfaction. She was a woman of wit, of knowledge. Her glib tongue was refreshing and piquant after the demure monosyllables and faint opinions--always watered by Mamma--of the Liddleshorn damsels. They were smoothly clattering down the High Street. “Furniture.” Pamela pointed to the upholsterer’s. “There should be oak in the dining-room.” “There is oak at Folly Corner.” “Is that oak?” She opened her big eyes and arched her faint dun brows. “Then it is different. We had a beautiful carved dinner-wagon at the boarding-house.” “It was my father’s grandfather’s furniture, and his grandfather’s before him,” Jethro said conservatively. Pamela ran on: “And cushions. There should be lots of cushions with frills.” She threw a longing glance at the draper’s. Jethro looked too. One window was full of down cushions--big, square, and with frills deeper than the cushions themselves. “They would look lovely on the settle,” Pamela said gloatingly. Every woman has her pet weakness. Hers had always been _carte blanche_ at the Oriental shop. There was a spatter of Oriental fripperies in a side window at the Liddleshorn draper’s; it was an up-to-date shop. “And embroidered mats,” she added, “and big bowls to stand flower-pots in; and those green specimen glasses for the table; and a bit or two of that Benares brass; and--it’s really a very good assortment--one of those guitars to hang on the wall with ribbons. You should have fretwork ornaments and some lacquered brackets, on which to stand plates or little blue tear-bottles.” Jethro beckoned to a small boy on the curb, and threw him the reins. “We’ll go in,” he said, jumping down and holding out his hand to Pamela. “I must get some gloves first of all,” she said, as her foot touched the pavement. When she had bought them, she led Jethro captive through the Oriental department. He told her carelessly to buy what she chose, and she moved eagerly from one counter to another. She chose some gaudy rugs to toss about the oak floors. She bought brass bowls and trays, a few grotesque ornaments for the shelves, mats, a guitar, a Chinese woman’s shoe, a mandarin’s petticoat to throw over an armchair, a bundle of peacock’s feathers, a few bits of coarsely-printed china, various embroidered table-covers--all the vividly-colored, alluring rubbish that she fancied. They had it packed up and stowed in the dogcart. She carried the china gingerly on her knee for fear of breakage. Her eyes danced. After years of poverty, this careless throwing away of money was delightful. When they reached home she made Daborn take everything out and carry it into the dining-room--the dining-parlor, as Gainah persisted in calling it. There was a strong smell of raw onion from the kitchen; it was being packed away in wide-mouthed bottles, with alternate slices of beet and a savory bath of spiced vinegar. Gainah came in, her hands dyed with onion juice.