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.
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