She told Phipps, Miss Imogen’s maid, sir, that she was anxious to see the effect of her ladyship’s and Miss Imogen’s gowns when they get back from the Drawing-Room.
Brooke Twombley.
Probyn.
Beg your pardon, Mr. Brooke, but we’ve always understood that when Mrs. Gaylustre calls in the morning she’s a dressmaker, and when she calls in the afternoon she’s a lady.
Brooke Twombley.
Oh, very well; it’s awfully confusing. [Probyn goes out. Brooke reads the letter.] “My sweet child. For heaven’s sake let me have your skeddle, or whatever you call your list of debts, directly. I’ll do my best to get you out of your scrape, though how I can’t think. I’m desperately short of money, and altogether—as my poor dear father used to say—things are as blue as old Stilton. If your pa finds out what a muddle I’m in, I fear he’ll throw up public life and bury us in the country, and then good-by to my dear boy’s and girl’s prospects. So if I contrive to clear you once more, don’t do it again, my poppet, or you’ll break the heart of your loving mother, Kitty Twombley.” The Mater’s a brick—what! But I wonder if she has any notion how much it tots up to.
[He places the letter upon the back of a large saddle-bag arm-chair while he takes out the schedule.]
Brooke Twombley.
Three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six, nought, two. What!