every evening, and Mr. Dix, of course, was always glad of a game after working hours.
"What a life!" said Gladys, when they came in. "Not but what I daresay it's good for your inside, all that hopping about. And Mr. Dix, he deserves a bit of fun, working as he does. But that Mr. Rochester! Ain't he got nothing to do? 'As he got a nindependen tincome? Ain't he got no trade?"
"He's an engineer, I believe," Jane told her.
"Then why doesn't he enginee? No, you mark my words: he's got a reason of his own for hanging about here; are you sure he ain't a detective?"
"There wouldn't be anything for him to detect here," said Lucilla.
"I'm not so sure. There's people with pasts. Where's Addler's husband?"
"Dead," said Lucilla.
"So she says," said Gladys. And Jane had to say, "That'll do," very firmly and end the conversation.
You know how elastic time is, and how some days seem to have no time in them at all, and other days seem as though there was time in them for everything. These days were full of time—time to go from room to room, touching up the flowers, changing the position of a chair or a table, followed by little Addie Dadd, always flagrantly sticky but faithfully keeping her promise "not to touch." The girls tried very hard to like poor little Addie, who plainly adored them, but you cannot really love a child unless you can embrace it, and Addie was always much too sticky for that, except just after her bath, and then, of course, Mrs. Dadd was always there to say, "Thank Miss Quested and Miss Craye, Addie, for being so kind," and then, of course, Addie said, "Thank you," and nothing more could be said on either side.
They had to get rid of the child before settling to their sewing, of which they did an incredible amount. Aunt Lucy's old sprigged muslins and striped bareges made the most delicious frocks and jumpers, and Jane had a sage-green, soft-satin gown for evening with little pink and white
