“Very well,” said her father; “but you must wrap up very warm.”
So Priscilla’s father filled his pipe, and Maggie stood on the steps and blew twice, and soon a cab came, and off they bowled to the little street off Regent Street.
Priscilla’s mother was quite right. The shop was shut; but Priscilla’s father hammered on the side door, and soon it was opened by a very little servant in a cap all on one side.
“Is Mr. Dear in?” asked Priscilla’s father.
“No, he’s not,” said the very little servant.
“Is Mrs. Dear in?” asked Priscilla’s father.
“There isn’t a Mrs. Dear,” said the very little servant.
“Then who is there?” asked Priscilla’s father.
“There’s Miss Dear,” said the very little servant. “Mrs. Dear died years ago, on the day after the Diamond Jubilee.”
“Is Miss Dear in?” asked Priscilla’s father.