The box proved to contain a large number of “bits” of all sizes and kinds—­fragments of silk (plain and ribbed), of plush, of ribbon both wide and narrow; small sprays of marguerites, a rose or two, some poppies, and a bunch of violets; a few made bows in velvet and silk; some elastic, some satin, some feathers, a wing here and there ... the miscellaneous assortment of odds-and-ends always appropriated (or, in the modern military slang, “won”) by assistants in the millinery.  Some had been used, some were startlingly new.  Jenny was more modest in such acquirements than were most of her associates; but she was affected, as all such must be, by the prevailing wind.  Strangely enough, it was not her habit to wear very smart hats, for business or at any other time.  She would have told you, in the event of any such remark, that when you had been fiddling about with hats all day you had other things to do in the evenings.  Yet she had good taste and very nimble fingers when occasion arose.  In bringing her box from the bedroom she brought also from the stand in the passage her drooping hat, against which she proceeded to lay various materials, trying them with her sure eye, seeking to compose a picture, with that instructive sense of cynosure which marks the crafty expert.  Fascinated, with her lips parted in an expression of that stupidity which is so often the sequel to a fit of crying, Emmy watched Jenny’s proceedings, her eyes travelling from the hat to the ever-growing heap of discarded ornaments.  She was dully impressed with the swift judgment of her sister in consulting the secrets of her inner taste.  It was a judgment unlike anything in her own nature of which she was aware, excepting the measurement of ingredients for a pudding.

So they sat, all engrossed, while the kettle began to sing and the desired steam to pour from the spout, clouding the scullery.  The only sound that arose was the gurgling of Pa Blanchard’s pipe (for he was what is called in Kennington Park a wet smoker).  He sat remembering something or pondering the insufficiency of news.  Nobody ever knew what he thought about in his silences.  It was a mystery over which the girls did not puzzle, because they were themselves in the habit of sitting for long periods without speech.  Pa’s broodings were as customary to them as the absorbed contemplativeness of a baby.  “Give him his pipe,” as Jenny said; “and he’ll be quiet for hours—­till it goes out. Then there’s a fuss!  My word, what a racket!  Talk about a fire alarm!” And on such occasions she would mimic him ridiculingly, to diminish his complaints, while Emmy roughly relighted the hubble-bubble and patted her father once more into a contented silence.  Pa was to them, although they did not know it, their bond of union.  Without him, they would have fallen apart, like the outer pieces of a wooden boot-tree.  For his sake, with all the apparent lack of sympathy shown in their behaviour to him, they endured a life which neither desired nor would have tolerated upon her own account.  So it was that Pa’s presence acted as a check and served them as company of a meagre kind, although he was less interesting or expansive than a little dog might have been.