“I say, she is an awful little creature, isn’t she?” said Miriam, watching Eve bend a crimson face over the tea-tray on the hearthrug. “She put her boots on the pavilion table this afternoon when all those men were there—about a mile high they are—with tassels. Why does she go on like that?”
“Men like that sort of thing,” said Sarah lightly.
“Sally!”
“They do.... I believe she drinks.”
“Sally! My dear!”
“I believe she does. She’s always having shandygaff with the men.”
“Oh, well, perhaps she doesn’t,” murmured Eve.
“Chuck me a lump of sugar, Eve.”
Miriam subsided once more amongst the rose petals.
“Bevvy thinks I oughtn’t to dance.”