They possessed only one bed, one washstand, and one dressing-table; but in some other respects they were rather fortunate girls, for they had two mahogany wardrobes; this mutual independence as regards wardrobes was due partly to Mrs. Baines’s strong commonsense, and partly to their father’s tendency to spoil them a little.  They had, moreover, a chest of drawers with a curved front, of which structure Constance occupied two short drawers and one long one, and Sophia two long drawers.  On it stood two fancy work-boxes, in which each sister kept jewellery, a savings-bank book, and other treasures, and these boxes were absolutely sacred to their respective owners.  They were different, but one was not more magnificent than the other.  Indeed, a rigid equality was the rule in the chamber, the single exception being that behind the door were three hooks, of which Constance commanded two.

“Well,” Sophia began, when Constance appeared.  “How’s darling Mr. Povey?” She was lying on her back, and smiling at her two hands, which she held up in front of her.

“Asleep,” said Constance.  “At least mother thinks so.  She says sleep is the best thing for him.”

“‘It will probably come on again,’” said Sophia.

“What’s that you say?” Constance asked, undressing.

“‘It will probably come on again.’”

These words were a quotation from the utterances of darling Mr. Povey on the stairs, and Sophia delivered them with an exact imitation of Mr. Povey’s vocal mannerism.

“Sophia,” said Constance, firmly, approaching the bed, “I wish you wouldn’t be so silly!” She had benevolently ignored the satirical note in Sophia’s first remark, but a strong instinct in her rose up and objected to further derision.  “Surely you’ve done enough for one day!” she added.

For answer Sophia exploded into violent laughter, which she made no attempt to control.  She laughed too long and too freely while Constance stared at her.

“I don’t know what’s come over you!” said Constance.

“It’s only because I can’t look at it without simply going off into fits!” Sophia gasped out.  And she held up a tiny object in her left hand.

Constance started, flushing.  “You don’t mean to say you’ve kept it!” she protested earnestly.  “How horrid you are, Sophia!  Give it me at once and let me throw it away.  I never heard of such doings.  Now give it me!”

“No,” Sophia objected, still laughing.  “I wouldn’t part with it for worlds.  It’s too lovely.”

She had laughed away all her secret resentment against Constance for having ignored her during the whole evening and for being on such intimate terms with their parents.  And she was ready to be candidly jolly with Constance.

“Give it me,” said Constance, doggedly.

Sophia hid her hand under the clothes.  “You can have his old stump, when it comes out, if you like.  But not this.  What a pity it’s the wrong one!”