" "Oh, dear!" simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. "They imagine their work is done. Let us pass, Sir. I am going to take you entirely at your word. Oh, you must believe me.
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