"Well, of course candidly," said the woman, "I think it's silly. I daresay I'm old-fashioned." ...
"I daresay," murmured Edward Henry.
"They told me you were very ironic," said she, flushing but meek.
"They!" Who? Who in the world of London had been labelling him as [224] ironic? He was rather proud.
"I hope if you do do this kind of play—and we're all looking to you, Mr. Machin," said the lady, making a new start, "I hope you won't go in for these costumes and scenery. That would never do!"
Again the stab of the needle!
"It wouldn't," he said.
"I'm delighted you think so," said she.
An orange telegram came travelling from hand to hand along that row of stalls, and ultimately, after skipping a few persons, reached the magnificently-arrayed woman, who read it, and then passed it to Edward Henry.
"Splendid!" she exclaimed. "Splendid!"