“It really is; though I shouldn’t have thought of it. You are always so clever in thinking of things, Mrs. Jones.”
“You are a sad flatterer, Mr. Lasceet.”
Mr. Lasceet endeavors to look very sly and cunning, and while he gives his mind to this endeavor another slips into his place.
“How do you do, Mrs. Jones?” says Percival Drummond.
“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drummond? I haven’t seen you for ever so long.”
Mr. Lasceet melts into the swaying background, and is seen no more.
“It really is not nice of you to say so, Mrs. Jones,” is Mr. Drummond’s response, “when I took you in to dinner at Mrs. Tiger’s night before last.”
“Oh, dear me; how stupid of me! I really fear I am losing my mind. It is the weather, I think. It is so like a Roman winter, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is a little.”