‘Don’t you think you are rather hard upon him?’ asked her friend, smiling, and smoothing her hair.
‘Not a bit,’ replied the sage Miss Wren, with an air of vast experience. ‘My dear, they don’t care for you, those fellows, if you’re not hard upon ’em. But I was saying If I should be able to have your company. Ah! What a large If! Ain’t it?’
‘I have no intention of parting company, Jenny.’
‘Don’t say that, or you’ll go directly.’
‘Am I so little to be relied upon?’
‘You’re more to be relied upon than silver and gold.’ As she said it, Miss Wren suddenly broke off, screwed up her eyes and her chin, and looked prodigiously knowing. ‘Aha!
Who comes here?
A Grenadier.
What does he want?
A pot of beer.
And nothing else in the world, my dear!’
A man’s figure paused on the pavement at the outer door. ‘Mr Eugene Wrayburn, ain’t it?’ said Miss Wren.
‘So I am told,’ was the answer.