“Maybe you left on compulsion; kitchen wenches have strong arms, sir,” remarked Kitty.
“Nay, nay, madam, Jack Bates—my name, madam—has always been a favourite with the wenches.”
“The kitchen wenches?”
“Zounds, madam, a wench is a wench, whether in the kitchen or the parlour, Oh, I know woman thoroughly: I have studied her. Woman is a delightful branch of education.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Kitty, sinking in a curtesy with the look of mock demureness with which she was accustomed to fascinate her audiences at Drury Lane.
Mr. Bates was fascinated by that look. He smiled good-naturedly, waving his hat as if to deprecate the suggestion that he meant to be a gay dog.
“Nay, be not fluttered, fair one,” he cried with a smirk. “I protest that I am a gentleman.”
“Oh, I breathe again,” said Kitty, rising to the surface, so to speak, after her curtesy, “A gentleman? I should never have guessed it. I fancied I heard you assert that you were an actor—just the opposite, you know.”
“So I am, madam. I am an actor,” said Mr. Bates. Sharp though Kitty's sarcasm was, it glanced off him.
Kitty assumed a puzzled look. Then she pretended that his meaning had dawned on her.