XI

three beautiful little razors in safety sheaths, shaving bowl and all. Underneath came a sort of escritoire outfit: blotters, pens, ink bottles, paper, envelopes, memorandum books: and then a perfect sewing outfit with three different-sized scissors, thimbles, needles, silks and cottons, darning egg, all of the very best quality and perfectly finished. Then there was a little medicine store, with bottles labelled Laudanum, Tincture of Myrrh, Ess. Cloves and so on: but empty. Everything was perfectly new, and the whole thing, when shut up, was as big as a small, but fat weekend bag. And inside, it fitted together like a puzzle. The bottles could not possibly have spilled: there wasn’t room.

The thing was wonderfully made and contrived, excellent craftsmanship of the Victorian order. But somehow it was monstrous. Some Chatterley must even have felt it, for the thing had never been used. It had a peculiar soullessness.

Yet Mrs. Bolton was thrilled.

“Look what beautiful brushes, so expensive, even the shaving brushes, three perfect ones! No! and those scissors! They’re the best that money could buy. Oh, I call it lovely!”

“Do you?” said Connie. “Then you have it.”

“Oh no, my Lady!”

“Of course! It will only lie here till Doomsday. If you won’t have it, I’ll send it to the Duchess as well as the pictures, and she doesn’t deserve so much. Do have it!”

“Oh your Ladyship! Why I shall never be able to thank you.”

“You needn’t try,” laughed Connie.

And Mrs. Bolton sailed down with the huge and very black box in her arms, flushing bright pink in her excitement.