"Why, you haven't got it, after all!" she cried, her face falling. "Tillie, my own dear girl," he said, "I'm uncommon sorry, upon my soul I am, but you can't have that cloak this evening." "But why, Leander, why?" "Because one of the clasps is broke. It must be sent back to be repaired." "I don't mind that. Let me have it just as it is." "And the lining's torn. No, Matilda, I shan't make you a present of a damaged article. I shall send it back. They must change it for me." ("Then," he thought, "I can buy my Matilda another.") "I don't care for any other but that," she said; "and you can't match it." "Oh, lor!" he thought, "and she knows every inch of it. The goddess must give it up; it'll be all the same to _her_. Very well then, dearest, you _shall_ have that, but not till it's done up. I must have my way in this; and as soon as ever I can, I'll bring it round." "Leander, could you bring it me by Sunday," she said eagerly, "when you come?" "Why Sunday?" he asked. "Because--oh, that was the message your aunt asked me to bring you; it was in a note, but I've lost it. She told me what was inside though, and it's this. Will you give her the pleasure of your company at her mid-day dinner at two o'clock, to be introduced to mamma? And she said you were to be sure and not forget her ring." He tottered for a moment. The ring! Yes, there was that to be got off, too, besides the cloak. "Haven't you got the ring from Vidler's yet?" she said. "He's had it such a time." He had told her where he had left it for alterations. "Yes," he said, "he has had it a time. It's disgraceful the way that old Vidler potters and potters. I shall go round and 'urry him up. I won't stand it any longer." Here a customer came in, and Matilda slipped away with a hurried good-bye. "I've got till Sunday to get straight," the hairdresser thought, as he attended on the new comer, "the best part of a week; surely I can talk that Venus over by that time." When he was alone he went up to see her, without losing a moment. He must have left the door unlocked in his haste, for she was standing before the low chimney-glass, regarding herself intently. As he came in she turned. [Illustration: SHE WAS STANDING BEFORE THE LOW CHIMNEY-GLASS, REGARDING HERSELF INTENTLY.] "Who has done all this?" she demanded. "Tell me, was it you?" "I did take the liberty, mum," he faltered guiltily. "You have done well," she said graciously. "With reverent and loving care have you imparted hues as of life to these cheeks, and decked my image in robes of costly skins." "Don't name it, mum," he said. "But what are these?" she continued, raising a hand to the light ringlets on her brow. "I like them not--they are unseemly. The waving lines, parted by the bold chisel of a Grecian sculptor, resemble my ambrosial tresses more nearly than this abomination."