Made o’ gilded¹ leather,

And she’s put on her Hieland brogues

To skip amang the heather:

And she’s cast off her bonny goon

Made o’ the silk and satin,

And she’s put on a tartan plaid

To row amang the bracken.”

 M

ARIE JEAN HENNESY was making her morning toilet. The sun was five hours high, but for this Marie Jean cared nothing at all. She finished tying a row of white rags in her hair that gave her a peculiarly spiked² and bristling³ appearance, and then buttoned her velveteen waist here and there, leaving a button over at the top and bringing a mateless buttonhole out at the bottom.

 

-38-

 

Marie Jean's room was in a state of disorder⁴ that suggested its owner had participated in late festivities the night before. A pair of soiled white slippers⁵ were flung under the bed, together with a pair of down-trodden shoes which Marie Jean, on her knees, was even now seeking. A white gown that had lost much of its pristine⁶ purity was thrown over a chair, while belts, ribbons, soap, corset-strings, fans, handkerchiefs, powder-puffs and stockings occupied conspicuous⁷ positions on the furniture or on the floor. Every drawer had its mouth shut tight on a large mouthful of its possessions,—and the dresser top was so filled with combs, brushes, perfumery, thread, safety pins, matches, hair-pins and bottles, that the only wonder was it could hold it all.

 

But the rapt expression of Marie Jean Hennesy's face betokened⁸ that her thoughts were far away from the mean subject of household disorder. She was studying the programme of the ball of the night before, at which she had danced every number. To be sure, her slip-39-pers had hurt her, and she had endured an uncomfortable pinch in the waist, but

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