No one knows! His wicked old stepfather took him out late last night and hasn’t returned him. Such a night as it was, too, and him still wearing his summer under-vests.
Beatie.
Mr. Posket?
Popham.
Mr. Posket—no, my Cis!
Beatie.
How dare you speak of Master Farringdon in that familiar way?
Popham.
How dare I? Because me and him formed an attachment before ever you darkened our doors. [Taking a folded printed paper from her pocket.] You may put down the iron ’eel too heavy, Miss Tomlinson. I refer you to Bow Bells—“First Love is Best Love; or, The Earl’s Choice.”
[As Popham offers the paper, Cis enters, looking very pale, worn-out, and dishevelled.