She is not contrite.

Yes, maybe she did promise not to venture forth on the cold floors of daybreak, but she had risen for a moment only, and we just t'neaded her with our talk about draughts--there were no such things as draughts in her young days--and it is more than she can do (here she again attempts to rise but we hold her down) to lie there and watch that beautiful screen being spoilt.

I reply that the beauty of the screen has ever been its miserable defect: ho, there! for a knife with which to spoil its beauty and make the bedroom its fitting home.

As there is no knife handy, my foot will do; I raise my foot, and then--she sees that it is bare, she cries to me excitedly to go back to bed lest I catch cold.

For though, ever careless of herself, she will wander the house unshod, and tell us not to talk havers when we chide her, the sight of one of us similarly negligent rouses her anxiety at once.