Mr. Wilson [aside to Jack]: Latest, latest, you chump! Don’t you know she’s English?
Jack [aside]: I get you! [Aloud.] Oh, you mean the latest, Mrs. Atkins?
Mrs. Atkins [tartly]: Isn’t that what I said, the litest in black?
Jack [hurriedly]: Yes, certainly, Mrs. Atkins, and we have the very latest here; never keep any other kind, in fact. [Places chair for her.] Just take this chair, please. [Aside.] Now, which class does she belong to, the size smaller or size larger? Blest, if I know. I’ll try her on dad’s Pankhurst dope first. Shouldn’t wonder but she would fall for that when she’s so English. [Takes shoe from table and holds it up.] Here, madam, you have before you the very latest thing in boots, no other than the Pankhurst, designed by the celebrated suffragette leader herself and— [Mrs. Atkins knocks boot out of his hand.] Why, what’s the matter?
Mrs. Atkins [vehemently]: Don’t you dare to sell me a boot that horrid woman’s ’ad anything to do with.
Jack [aside]: Struck it wrong again. Oh the contrariness of woman. [Aloud.] But my dear madam, surely you’re an admirer of the woman who was the greatest pioneer in fighting for the vote for women?
Mrs. Atkins [jumps up excitedly]: That’s the very reason I ’ate ’er. Votes for wimen! What does wimen want with votes? Us women ’ave enough to do to cook our ’usbands’ meals and tend the childrens’ noses and clean up the ’ouse after the man’s gone to work, leaving hashes and mud all over the floor, the way he does. [Looks at boots on table.]
Jack [aside, indicating fourth finger]: This finger says, Agree with everything a customer says. [Aloud.] That’s my idea, entirely, Mrs. Atkins. I agree with you there.
Mrs. Atkins [turns on him]: What do you know about it, young man?
Jack [confused]: Why, I—I—