Mrs. Brigg trotted back to the kitchen decidedly relieved. Cuckoo's
suddenly altered mode of life had tried her greatly. The girl had taken
to going out in the day and staying at home at night. Simultaneously
with this changed _r?gime_ her funds had evidently become low. She had
begun to live less well, to watch more keenly than of old the condition
in which her commons went down to the kitchen and returned from it on
the advent of the next meal. By various little symptoms the landlady
knew that her lodger was getting hard up. Yet no amount of badgering
and argument would induce Cuckoo to say why she sat indoors at night.
She acknowledged that she was not ill. Mrs. Brigg had been seriously
exercised. But now her old heart was glad. Cuckoo was, perhaps, mounting
into higher circles, circles in which hats were not worn during the
evening. And as Mrs. Brigg entered her nethermost hell she broke into
a thin, quavering song:
"In 'er 'air she wore a white cam-eeiyer,
Dark blue was the colour of 'er heye."
It was her song of praise. She always sang it on great occasions.
When the lady of the feathers reached Victoria Street she found the
little party already assembled. Valentine met her ceremoniously in the
violet-scented hall and helped her to slide out of her jacket.
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