One and two—and one—and two, &c.
Enter Agatha Posket, a handsome, showy woman, of about thirty-six, looking perhaps younger.
Agatha Posket.
Why, Cis child, at your music again?
Cis.
Yes, ma, always at it. You’ll spoil my taste by forcing it if you’re not careful.
Agatha Posket.
We have no right to keep Miss Tomlinson so late.
Beatie.
Oh, thank you, it doesn’t matter. I—I—am afraid we’re not making—very—great—progress.