“Which she?” cried Mr. Tridge, not without perturbation.
“’Oo do you think?” dallied Mr. Dobb.
“Not—not that widder woman from Teignmouth, that Mrs. Larstick?” queried Mr. Clark, shakily. “Not ’er? That I do ’ope. Don’t say it’s ’er?” he begged.
“N-n-n-nor y-y-y-yet th-th-th-that—” stammered Mr. Tridge, clearly lacking full control of his jaw.
“Why the dooce don’t you say straight out, ’Orace?” asked Mr. Lock.
Mr. Dobb swallowed convulsively and steadied himself by taking a firm grip on the arms of his chair.
“It’s—it’s Looie Radling,” he announced.
“Oh, ’er!” said Mr. Tridge, swiftly reassured. “Nice little bit of goods, too.”
“Werry nice,” agreed Mr. Clark, in equal relief. “It’ll be a pleasure to meet ’er again.”
Mr. Lock, smiling, readjusted the set of his necktie.