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Jack confidentially inquired, taking his hat off, and accepting a well-dusted chair. There was now nothing for it but to explain my difficulties, which I did, Miss Lining saying, "Yisss, misss," at every two or three words. When I had said my say, she sucked the top of her brass thimble thoughtfully for some moments, and then spoke as an oracle. "There's a hinside and a hout to the stuff?
"So I've 'eerd yisss, sir," said Miss Lining; "and there's something of the same in them pills that's spoke so well of in your magazine, sir, I think. I sent by the carrier for a box, sir, on Saturday last, and would have done sooner, but for waiting for Mrs. Barker to pay for the pelerine I made out of her uncle's funeral scarf. Yisss, misss."
There's been an advertisement at the end of it for months, like a fly-leaf, of Norton's chamomile pills." And as I unravelled to Eleanor the mystery of our dressmaking difficulties, we could hear Jack convulsing Mrs. Arkwright with a perfect reproduction of Miss Lining's accent "Them pills that's spoke so well of in your magazine. Yisss, m'm."
Yisss, misss. And a hup and a down? Yisss, misss." "And quite half the gores won't fit in anywhere," I desperately interposed. Miss Lining took another taste of the brass thimble, and then said: "In course, misss, with a patterned thing there's as many gores to throw hout as to huse. Yisss, misss." "Are there?" said I. "But what a waste!"
"You understand?" said he briefly, setting down the cat. "Quite," said I. "Our mistake was beginning with the bodies. But we can get some more stuff." "An odd bit always comes in," said Miss Lining, speaking, I fear, from an experience of bits saved from the dresses of village patrons. "Yisss, misss."
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