“What’s the jolly row?” said a slow voice at the door. “Wot’s the bally shindy, beloved?”
“Like a really beautiful Cheshire cat,” Miriam repeated to herself, propped studiously on her elbows shrinking, and hoping that if she did not look round, Eunice’s carved brown curls, her gleaming slithering opaque oval eyes and her short upper lip, the strange evil carriage of her head, the wicked lines of her figure, would be withdrawn. “Cheshire, Cheshire,” she scolded inwardly, feeling the pain in her throat increase.
“Nothing. Wait for me. That’s all. Oh, my lungs, bones and et ceteras. It’s old age, I suppose, Uncle William.”
“Well, hurry your old age up, that’s all. I’m ready.”
“Well, don’t go away, you funny cuckoo, you can wait, can’t you?”
A party of girls straggled in one by one and drifted towards Polly in the window space.
“It’s the parties I look forward to.”
“My tie? Six-three at Crisp’s.”
The sounds of Polly’s bootlacing came to an end. She sat holding a court. “Doesn’t look forward to parties? She must be a funny cuckoo!”