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.