"Why not?" Sophia demanded.
"I shall never have another chance like to-day for getting on with
this," said Constance, picking up a bag from the counter.
She sat down and took from the bag a piece of loosely woven
canvas, on which she was embroidering a bunch of roses in coloured
wools. The canvas had once been stretched on a frame, but now, as
the delicate labour of the petals and leaves was done, and nothing
remained to do but the monotonous background, Constance was
content to pin the stuff to her knee. With the long needle and
several skeins of mustard-tinted wool, she bent over the canvas
and resumed the filling-in of the tiny squares. The whole design
was in squares--the gradations of red and greens, the curves of
the smallest buds--all was contrived in squares, with a result
that mimicked a fragment of uncompromising Axminster carpet.
Still, the fine texture of the wool, the regular and rapid grace
of those fingers moving incessantly at back and front of the
canvas, the gentle sound of the wool as it passed through the
holes, and the intent, youthful earnestness of that lowered gaze,
excused and invested with charm an activity which, on artistic
grounds, could not possibly be justified.
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