Theresa remained there until long past bedtime, and when she had finished the darn there was a deep hole in her middle finger, for she had refused to wear a thimble. She avoided the work-basket in future, and Nancy had not the energy to turn this lesson to further account by making her mend her own stockings, so as often as not there were holes in Theresa's heels; but the inkpot was handy, and she used it freely, foreseeing to what martyrdom more complaints might lead. Grace, who seemed to have gathered into her beautiful body all the commonsense the family could muster, had years ago accepted responsibility for her personal neatness, and her stockings were faultless; it was not lack of mending that wore them out, but the constancy with which she practised her dancing. On this Sunday there was boiled mutton for dinner. "I won't have any," said Theresa; "I can't bear the colour of the fat. It looks like wool." "Don't you like it, dearie? I'm so sorry." "We all hate it." "Oh dear, how stupid of me! Would you like to have eggs?" "Seven a shilling," said Grace promptly. "Are they? Well, it would be rather extravagant, and I'm not sure that we have any." "Of course we must eat the meat," said Edward manfully. "Don't make faces, Theresa. I'll excuse you from eating the fat." She peered at him sideways. "In fact," he was thus forced to admit, "I don't like it myself." "There's a lovely pudding to make up," said Nancy. "Blackberry and apple pie--and cream; so we'll be good children and eat the meat. Sarah is coming to-morrow, and we'll give the rest of it to her." She smiled serenely, but when the meal was done her husband drew her aside. "Is that how you practise economy?" he asked. "What, the cream? It's only once a week, dear." "No, no--giving away the joint." "Oh, I suppose it was rather thoughtless of me. No, it wouldn't be right. We'll curry it." She went upstairs for her afternoon sleep, and left him with less confidence for the future.