The arrangement between us was that she should lie down until my return, and to ensure its being carried out I saw her in bed before I started, but with the bang of the door she would be at the window to watch me go: there is one spot on the road where a thousand times I have turned to wave my stick to her, while she nodded and smiled and kissed her hand to me.

That kissing of the hand was the one English custom she had learned.
In an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her in bed, according to promise, but still I am suspicious.

The way to her detection is circuitous.
'I'll need to be rising now,' she says, with a yawn that may be genuine.
'How long have you been in bed ?' 'You saw me go.' 'And then I saw you at the window.

Did you go straight back to bed ?' 'Surely I had that much sense.' 'The truth!' 'I might have taken a look at the clock first.' 'It is a terrible thing to have a mother who prevaricates.

Have you been lying down ever since I left ?' 'Thereabout.' 'What does that mean exactly ?' 'Off and on.' 'Have you been to the garret ?' 'What should I do in the garret ?' 'But have you ?' 'I might just have looked up the garret stair.' 'You have been redding up the garret again!' 'Not what you could call a redd up.' 'O, woman, woman, I believe you have not been in bed at all!' 'You see me in it.' 'My opinion is that you jumped into bed when you heard me open the door.' 'Havers.' 'Did you ?' 'No.' 'Well, then, when you heard me at the gate ?' 'It might have been when I heard you at the gate.' As daylight goes she follows it with her sewing to the window, and gets another needleful out of it, as one may run after a departed visitor for a last word, but now the gas is lit, and no longer is it shameful to sit down to literature.