Still feeling as if I were in a weird dream, I turned towards the direction of the voice that enunciated these puzzling sentiments.
It proceeded from——
Ah! I knew her, too!
I knew the brass-bright hair and the plump white-clad, sulphur-crested, cockatoo-like form across the table.
"London's Love," again! Miss Vi Vassity herself! I'd seen her last where I last saw Million—at that supper-table.... Now what in the world was England's premier comedienne doing in this asylum—if an asylum it were?
She went on in her high swift voice. "You won't catch me giving half-crowns to any more tramps to hand in a wire at the next post-office! No! Not if they can sport a row of medals on their chests from here to East Grinstead! I knew how it would be," declared Miss Vi Vassity. "My kind heart's my downfall, but I'm going to sign the pledge to reform that. And you, my dear——"—to me—
"You sit down and have a bite of something to eat with us. Your mistress don't mind. You don't mind, Nellie, do you?"—this to Miss Million.
"We all mess together in this place. I couldn't be worried with a servant's hall. Make room for her there, Irene, will you? The girl looks scared to death; it's all right, Miss—Smith, aren't you? Sit down, child, sit down——"
Before I could say another word I found that a wooden chair had been pushed squeakingly under me by some one. Knives and forks had been clattered down in front of me by some one else. And there was I, sitting almost in the lap of a very tiny, dark-eyed, gipsy-looking girl, in a blouse without a collar and a pink linen sun hat pulled well down over her small face.
On the other side of me, a big, lazy-looking blonde in a sky-blue sports coat rocked her own chair a little away from mine, and said, in a drowsy, friendly sort of voice: "Drop of ale, dear? Or d'you take a glasser stout?"