Not a syllable against the passe-partouts! They were the making of me. It was the passe-partouts that brought me and Tedder together.
Farncombe.
Who?
Lily.
Tedder. In the house where I worked, a man of the name of Tedder—Ambrose Tedder—taught dancing—stage dancing—“Tedder’s Academy of Saltatory Art”—and every time I passed Tedder’s door, and heard his violin or piano, and the sound of the pupils’ feet, I—! Breaking off and throwing herself back. Oh, lor’, if once I——!
Farncombe.
Go on; go on.
Lily.
Well, ultimately Tedder took me and trained me—did it for nix—for what he hoped to get out of me in the future. Ah, and he hasn’t lost over me—poor old Ambrose! He collared a third of my salary for ever so long; and now that the old chap’s rheumaticky and worn out, I—oh, it’s not worth mentioning. Jumping up and walking away. My stars, he could teach, could Tedder! I began by going to him for the last twenty minutes of my dinner-hour. He wanted to stop that, because it was bad for me, he said, to practise on a full—a full—! Ha, ha, ha! On a full—! Behind the table, resting her two hands upon it and shaking with laughter. Ho, ho, ho! As if I ever had—in those days——!
Farncombe.