As Cosimo said, they had really got most of the work done. The furniture would not arrive until the morrow, but the walls were already distempered a light green colour, almost white, and the ceiling was done, and the floor was a wide frame glassy with boiled oil and paraffin and polish, only awaiting the square of Japanese matting in the centre. The shining brown border was not yet quite dry, and Cosimo had very cleverly built up a sort of gang-plank across it to the door. To see Jellies, herself of a yielding figure, crossing this yielding plank, was very funny indeed. The framing in _passe-partout_ of the photographs of old masters went down as sundries; Amory, with Myers on _Human Personality_ tucked under her arm, had spent half the day in setting the photographs each in the one and only place for it; and now, until the bed and chest of drawers and things should come, she and Cosimo were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the unstained part of the floor. A yard of casement-cloth was between them, which Cosimo deftly ripped up with a pair of scissors. He had brought his own little work-basket. He was as handy with a needle as a sailor. And as he measured the casement-cloth he talked. "Steady a moment--you've got hold of the wrong end; that's the end, where I've basted it. If I were you I should buttonhole the eyelets.... Look out, you're giving me a finished pair to cut ... and I say, Amory, you want a fresh binding on that skirt--you'll be catching your heel and coming down; I'll put a stitch in it for you as soon as I've finished this.... I say you're quiet; a penny for your thoughts!"