Without doubt Louis’ notions upon domestic work were being modified with extreme rapidity.  In the suburb from which he sprang domestic work—­and in particular washing up—­had been regarded as base, foul, humiliating, unmentionable—­as toil that any slut might perform anyhow.  It would have been inconceivable to him that he should admire a girl in the very act of washing up.  Young ladies, even in exclusive suburban families, were sometimes forced by circumstances to wash up—­of that he was aware—­but they washed up in secret and in shame, and it was proper for all parties to pretend that they never had washed up.  And here was Rachel converting the horrid process into a dignified and impressive ritual.  She made it as fine as fine needlework—­so exact, so dainty, so proud were the motions of her fingers and her forearms.  Obviously washing up was an art, and the delicate operation could not be scamped nor hurried ...

The triple pile of articles on the cloth grew slowly, but it grew; and then Rachel, having taken a fresh white cloth from a hook, began to wipe, and her wiping was an art.  She seemed to recognize each fork as a separate individuality, and to attend to it as to a little animal.  Whatever her view of charwomen, never would she have said of forks that they were all alike.

Louis felt in his hip pocket for his reserve cigarette-case.

And Rachel immediately said, with her back to him—­

“Have you really got a revolver, or were you teasing—­just now in the parlour?”

It was then that he perceived a small unframed mirror, hung at the height of her face on the broad, central, perpendicular bar of the old-fashioned window-frame.  Through this mirror the chit—­so he named her in his mind at the instant—­had been surveying him!

“Yes,” he said, producing the second cigarette-case, “I was only teasing.”  He lit a fresh cigarette from the end of the previous one.

“Well,” she said, “you did frighten Mrs. Maldon.  I was so sorry for her.”

“And what about you?  Weren’t you frightened?”

“Oh no!  I wasn’t frightened.  I guessed, somehow, you were only teasing.”

“Well, I just wasn’t teasing, then!” said Louis, triumphantly yet with benevolence.  And he drew a revolver from his pocket.

She turned her head now, and glanced neutrally at the incontestable revolver for a second.  But she made no remark whatever, unless the pouting of her tightly shut lips and a mysterious smile amounted to a remark.

Louis adopted an indifferent tone—­

“Strange that the old lady should be so nervous just to-night—­isn’t it?—­seeing these burglars have been knocking about for over a fortnight.  Is this the first time she’s got excited about it?”

“Yes, I think it is,” said Rachel faintly, as it were submissively, with no sign of irritation against him.

With their air of worldliness and mature wisdom they twittered on like a couple of sparrows—­inconsequently, capriciously; and nothing that they said had the slightest originality, weight, or importance.  But they both thought that their conversation was full of significance; which it was, though they could not explain it to themselves.  What they happened to say did not matter in the least.  If they had recited the Koran to each other the inexplicable significance of their words would have been the same.