Once there, she followed what had now become the most imperious need of her nature and wrapped herself as well as she could in a damask quilt which she snatched from her bed. She explained to the Widow Bartholomew (who had succeeded good old Grimsditch as housekeeper) that she felt chilly.

“So do we all, m’lady,” said the Widow, heaving a profound sigh. “The walls is sweating,” she said, with a curious, lugubrious complacency, and sure enough, she had only to lay her hand on the oak panels for the fingerprints to be marked there. The ivy had grown so profusely that many windows were now sealed up. The kitchen was so dark that they could scarcely tell a kettle from a cullender. A poor black cat had been mistaken for coals and shovelled on the fire. Most of the maids were already wearing three or four red-flannel petticoats, though the month was August.

“But is it true, m’lady,” the good woman asked, hugging herself, while the golden crucifix heaved on her bosom, “that the Queen, bless her, is wearing a what d’you call it, a⁠—” the good woman hesitated and blushed.