Sylvia told him the story of the Emperor’s reception, which seemed to amuse him very much.
“Where do you live?” Sylvia asked.
“Well, I live in Hampshire generally, but I have rooms in the Temple.”
“The Temple of who?” Sylvia asked, grandly.
“Mammon is probably the dedication, but by a legal fiction the titular god is suppressed.”
“Do you believe in God?” Sylvia asked.
“My dear Miss Scarlett, I protest that such a question so abruptly put in a cemetery is most unfair.”
“Don’t call me Miss Scarlett. It makes me feel like a girl in a shop. Call me Sylvia. That’s my name.”
“Dear me, how very refreshing you are,” said Mr. Iredale. “Do you know I’m positively longing for to-morrow. But meanwhile, dear child, dear girl, we have to-day. What shall we do with the rest of it? Let’s get on top of a ’bus and ride to Kensington Gardens. Hallowed as this spot is both by the mighty dead and the dear living, I’m tired of tombs.”
“I can’t go on the top of a ’bus,” Sylvia said. “Because I’ve not got any petticoats underneath my frock. I haven’t saved up enough money to buy petticoats yet. I had to begin with chemises.”