[Rising from the piano.] For me, Popham?
Popham.
Yes, sir. [Quietly to him.] The message is from a young lady who up to last Wednesday was all in all to you. Her name is Emma Popham.
Cis.
[Trying to get away.] Oh, go along, Popham!
Popham.
[Holding his sleeve.] Ah, it wasn’t “Go along, Popham” till that music girl came into the house. I will go along, but—cast your eye over this before you sleep to-night. [She takes out of her pocket-handkerchief a piece of printed paper which she hands him between her finger and thumb.] Part of a story in “Bow Bells,” called “Jilted; or, Could Blood Atone?” Wrap it in your handkerchief—it came round the butter.
[She goes out; Cis throws the paper into the grate.
Cis.