Rosy should begin to talk about Inglefield. She was evidently much impressed by Rosy and kept repeating “Dear, dear!” under her breath while the small strange person in the bed rapidly explained to her that there was nothing in the world she would have liked so much as to follow _her_ delightful profession, but that she couldn’t sit up to it, and had never had a needle in her hand but once, when at the end of three minutes it had dropped into the sheets and got into the mattress, so that she had always been afraid it would work out again and stick into her: which it hadn’t done yet and perhaps never would—she lay so quiet, pushing it about so little. “Perhaps you’d think it’s me that trimmed the little handkerchief I wear round my neck,” Miss Muniment said; “perhaps you’d think I couldn’t do less, lying here all day long with complete command of my time. Not a stitch of it. I’m the finest lady in London; I never lift my finger for myself. It’s a present from her ladyship—it’s her ladyship’s own beautiful needlework. What do you think of that? Have you ever met any one so favoured before? And the work—just look at the work and tell me how it strikes you.” The girl pulled off the bit of muslin from her neck and thrust it at Pinnie, who looked at it confusedly and gasped “Dear, dear, dear!” partly in sympathy, partly as if, in spite of the consideration she owed every one, those were very odd proceedings. “It’s very badly done; surely you see that,” said Lady Aurora. “It was only a joke.” “Oh yes, everything’s a joke!” cried the irrepressible invalid—“everything except my state of health; that’s admitted to be serious. When her ladyship sends me five shillings’ worth of coals it’s only a joke; and when she brings me a bottle of the finest port, that’s another; and when she climbs up seventy-seven stairs (there are seventy-seven, I know perfectly, though I never go up or down) to spend the evening with me at the height of the London season, that’s the best of all. I know all about the London season though I never go out, and I appreciate what her ladyship gives up. She’s very jocular indeed, but fortunately I know how to take it. You can see it wouldn’t do for me to be touchy, can’t you, Miss Pynsent?” “Dear, dear, I should be so glad to make you anything myself; it would be better—it would be better—!” poor Pinnie floundered. “It would be better than my poor work. I don’t know how to do that sort of thing in the least,” said Lady Aurora. “I’m sure I didn’t mean that, my lady—I only meant it would be more convenient. Anything in the world she might fancy,” the dressmaker went on as if it were a question of the invalid’s appetite.