"Whatever for? And those boots!"
"He wants me to marry him," declared Irene.
"Marry you? That's only a rumor, young Irene. I've properly rumbled your Danby. Marry you! I don't think."
"He is when he comes back from Paris, and he said you were a very bad example for me."
"Crushed!" said Jenny in mock humility. Then she went on, "Yes, you and your Parises. Any old way, you can tell Tin Ribs from me I should be ashamed to make a girl I was fond of look such a terrible sight."
"His brother said he'd like to be introduced to you."
"Yes; I daresay. Tin Ribs the Second, I suppose. No, thanks, not this little girl."
London deepened into summer, and the golden people coming out of Covent Garden seemed scattered with star dust from the prodigal June stars, while the high moon made of Jenny a moonbeam as, in white piqué, she sat in the front of the green omnibus going home.
These were happy days at Covent Garden, and when the season ended Jenny was sorry. She did not enjoy Yarmouth with its swarming sands and goat-carriages and dust and fleas and switchback flung down on the barren coast like a monstrous skeleton. She was glad to come back to London in the effulgence of a fine September; glad to rehearse again for the autumn opera season, and pleased, when that was over, to return to Drury Lane for the Christmas pantomime.
After her second spring season of opera was over she and Irene discussed the future. Danby had retired to Paris on his business. His rings sparkled unseen in the safe of a Camden Town pawnbroker, although the whisky and soda which they served to buy had long ceased to sparkle for Mrs. Dale. Irene said she was tired of being in three months and out three months.