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“But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. Drive away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against my return. "Here, Poll, help me!" Thus exhorted, Mrs. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. Sheila’s boys hadn’t been much help when they were around the house, anyway, they were more partial to lolling around on couches and running around with their girls. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. She made no attempt to answer her sister’s question. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. ‘Let me tell you,’ went on the nun severely, ‘it would have been better for you if you had taken the veil.

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