On their way back Corona summarised him as "a truly Christian tradesman." So the miniature gown was cut out, shaped, and sewn, after the unsuspecting Timothy had been measured for it on a pretence of Corona's that she wanted to discover how much he had grown during his rest-cure.

(For I regret to say that, as one subterfuge leads to another, she had by this time descended to feigning a nervous breakdown for him, due to his outgrowing his strength.) Best of all, and when the gown was finished, Nurse Branscome produced from her workbox a lucky threepenny-bit, and sewed it upon the breast to simulate a Beauchamp rose.
When Corona's own garments arrived--when they were indued and she stood up in them, a Greycoat at length from head to heel--to hide her own feelings she had to invent another breakdown (emotional this time) for Timothy as she dangled the gown in front of him.
"Be a man, Timmy!" she exhorted him.
Having clothed him and clasped him to her breast, she turned to Nurse Branscome, who had been permitted, as indeed she deserved, to witness the _coup de theatre_.
"If you _don't_ mind, Branny, I think we'll go off somewhere-- by ourselves." She carried the doll off to the one unkempt corner of Mr.
Battershall's garden, where in the shadow of a stone dovecot, ruinated and long disused, a rustic bench stood deep in nettles.
On this she perched herself, and sat with legs dangling while she discoursed with Timothy of their new promotion.
"Of course," she said, "you have the best of it.

Men always have." Nevertheless, she would have him know that to be a Greycoat was good enough for most people.

She described the schoolroom.
"It's something like a chapel," she said, "and something like a long whitewashed bird-cage, with great beams for perches.

You could eat your dinner off the floor most days; and Miss Champernowne has the dearest little mole on the left side of her upper lip, with three white hairs in it.