"I hate all those snobs."
"So do I," said the Tamburini, who worshipped the breed even when non-existent. "But don't go and include him. If it hadn't been for him——"
"Was he with her?"
"You ought to have heard the way he went on about you. She said: 'Why, Monty, I do believe you'd like to marry her.'"
Cassy's mouth twitched as she munched it. "She presumed to say that! She's an insolent beast."
"He shut her up, I can tell you. He said if he got on his knees, you wouldn't dust your feet on him."
"That jackanapes! I should say not!"
"You might say worse. Take the Metro. You're spat on if you're down and spat at if you're up. A dog's own life." Lifting her voice, the fat woman sang: "Croyez-moi car j'ai passé par la."
"What has that to do with it?"
Nothing whatever, the Tamburini truthfully reflected but omitted to say so. Paliser, in producing Mrs. Beamish, had also produced the programme. With both was a cheque. With the cheque was the assurance of another and a bigger one. She had only to earn it. To earn it she had only to follow the programme. The poor soul was trying to. The job was not easy. Cassy was skittish. A pull on the rein and she would kick the apple-cart over.