‘Well?’ with a threatening air.
‘Miss Fogerty,’ naming Betty’s own dressmaker.
‘Pshaw!’ says that slim damsel contemptuously. ‘However, Susan, that girl was pretty, any way. I wonder who she was? Had she a maid, I wonder? There was a dark-looking woman amongst the servants farther on, just behind the poet. Perhaps it was hers.’
‘Oh no,’ says Dom gravely, ‘that was his.’
‘His?’
‘The poet’s. Yes.’
‘Nonsense!’ says Betty. ‘What would he want a maid for?’
‘To comb his locks and copy his sonnets,’ says Dom, without blinking.
‘Nonsense! Men don’t have maids,’ says Betty, who seems to know all about it.
‘Oh, here is someone from the Park,’ cries Jacky suddenly.