“What part did you play?” asked Monica, who seemed to be sharing something of her brother’s feelings. She spoke humbly, as a disciple addressing his master or a mate his plumber.
Dora laughed. “Well, not the lead exactly. I’m in the chorus.”
“Coo!” observed Alan. “Are you a chorus-girl?”
“I suppose I must be,” Dora admitted. “Am I?” she appealed to her fiancé.
“Certainly you are. That’s why I’m marrying you. Clever men in the best novels are always infatuated by chorus-girls.”
“Don’t you love wearing all those beautiful costumes?” said Monica soulfully.
“Dora has a very good opinion of her figure, yes,” remarked Mr. Doyle. “So have I, dear,” he added hastily, catching a glint in his lady’s eye. “And I think it’s very sporting of you to have joined the——”
“That’ll do, Pat. That’s quite enough from you.”
Alan turned to George as one man of the world to another. “I say, you were pulling my leg, weren’t you? She’s not really your sister?” Old ideas die hard in the young.
The resulting hilarity took them out into the hall.