Barbara pished and pshawed.  It was no occasion for levity.

“I agree,” said I. The dressing hour is the calmest and most philosophic period of the day.

Barbara came up to me blue eyed and innocent, and with a traitorous jerk, undid my beautiful white bow.

“There, now listen.”

And I, dilapidated wretch, had to listen to the tale of crime.  It appeared that Reynolds, my wife’s maid, in putting Liosha into a ready-made gown—­a model gown I believe is the correct term—­insisted on her being properly corseted.  Liosha, agonisingly constricted, rebelled.  The maid was obdurate.  Liosha flew at her with a pair of scissors.  I think I should have done the same.  Reynolds bolted from the room.  So should I have done.  I sympathised with both of them.  Reynolds fled to her mistress, and, declaring it to be no part of her duty to wait on tigers, gave notice.

“We can’t lose Reynolds,” said I.

“Of course we can’t.”

“And we can’t pack Liosha off at a moment’s notice, so as to please Reynolds.”

“Oh, you’re too wise altogether,” said my wife, and left me to the tranquil completion of my dressing.

Liosha came down to dinner very subdued, after a short, sharp interview with Barbara, who, for so small a person, can put on a prodigious air of authority.  As a punishment for bloodthirsty behaviour she had made her wear the gown in the manner prescribed by Reynolds; and she had apologised to Reynolds, who thereupon withdrew her notice.  So serenity again prevailed.

In some respects Liosha was very childish.  The receipt of letters, no matter from whom—­even bills, receipts and circulars—­gave her overwhelming joy and sense of importance.  This harmless craze, however, led to another outburst of ferocity.  Meeting the postman outside the gate she demanded a letter.  The man looked through his bundle.

“Nothing for you this morning, ma’am.”

“I wrote to the dressmaker yesterday,” said Liosha, “and you’ve got the reply right there.”

“I assure you I haven’t,” said the postman.

“You’re a liar,” cried Liosha, “and I guess I’m going to see.”

Whereupon Liosha, who was as strong as a young horse, sprang to death-grapple with the postman, a puny little man, pitched him onto the side of the road and calmly entered into felonious possession of His Majesty’s mails.  Then finding no letter she cast the whole delivery over the supine and gasping postman and marched contemptuously into the house.

The most astonishing part of the business was that in these outbreaks of barbarity she did not seem to be impelled by blind rage.  Most people who heave a postman about a peaceful county would do so in a fit of passion, through loss of nerve-control.  Not so Liosha.  She did these things with the bland and deadly air of an inexorable Fate.

The perspiration still beads on my brow when I think of the cajoling and bribing and blustering and lying I had to practise in order to hush up the matter.  As for Liosha, both Jaffery and I rated her soundly.  I explained loftily that not so many years ago, transportation, lifelong imprisonment, death were the penalties for the felony which she had committed.