As Rachel hesitated, Mrs. Flushing came forward, still with a paint-brush in her mouth, flung open the wings of her wardrobe, and tossed a quantity of shawls, stuffs, cloaks, embroideries, on to the bed.  Rachel began to finger them.  Mrs. Flushing came up once more, and dropped a quantity of beads, brooches, earrings, bracelets, tassels, and combs among the draperies.  Then she went back to her stool and began to paint in silence.  The stuffs were coloured and dark and pale; they made a curious swarm of lines and colours upon the counterpane, with the reddish lumps of stone and peacocks’ feathers and clear pale tortoise-shell combs lying among them.

“The women wore them hundreds of years ago, they wear ’em still,” Mrs. Flushing remarked.  “My husband rides about and finds ’em; they don’t know what they’re worth, so we get ’em cheap.  And we shall sell ’em to smart women in London,” she chuckled, as though the thought of these ladies and their absurd appearance amused her.  After painting for some minutes, she suddenly laid down her brush and fixed her eyes upon Rachel.

“I tell you what I want to do,” she said.  “I want to go up there and see things for myself.  It’s silly stayin’ here with a pack of old maids as though we were at the seaside in England.  I want to go up the river and see the natives in their camps.  It’s only a matter of ten days under canvas.  My husband’s done it.  One would lie out under the trees at night and be towed down the river by day, and if we saw anythin’ nice we’d shout out and tell ’em to stop.”  She rose and began piercing the bed again and again with a long golden pin, as she watched to see what effect her suggestion had upon Rachel.

“We must make up a party,” she went on.  “Ten people could hire a launch.  Now you’ll come, and Mrs. Ambrose’ll come, and will Mr. Hirst and t’other gentleman come?  Where’s a pencil?”

She became more and more determined and excited as she evolved her plan.  She sat on the edge of the bed and wrote down a list of surnames, which she invariably spelt wrong.  Rachel was enthusiastic, for indeed the idea was immeasurably delightful to her.  She had always had a great desire to see the river, and the name of Terence threw a lustre over the prospect, which made it almost too good to come true.  She did what she could to help Mrs. Flushing by suggesting names, helping her to spell them, and counting up the days of the week upon her fingers.  As Mrs. Flushing wanted to know all she could tell her about the birth and pursuits of every person she suggested, and threw in wild stories of her own as to the temperaments and habits of artists, and people of the same name who used to come to Chillingley in the old days, but were doubtless not the same, though they too were very clever men interested in Egyptology, the business took some time.

At last Mrs. Flushing sought her diary for help, the method of reckoning dates on the fingers proving unsatisfactory.  She opened and shut every drawer in her writing-table, and then cried furiously, “Yarmouth!  Yarmouth!  Drat the woman!  She’s always out of the way when she’s wanted!”