“No, no, Milor Thomas, nevaire now,” cried Justine, “pas de petites soupers. I am engage.”
“Engaged, are you? What, to be married?”
“Yes, milor, to be married.”
“Then good luck to you, ma’amselle. But I say, you are a nice one, you are.”
“I do you not understand, sir.”
“Not understand?” cried Tom, catching her by the wrist. “None of your nonsense. Come now, you were in the secret.”
“Sir, I will never divulge the secret of her ladyship; no, not even to milor.”
“Get out!”
“You loose my arm, milor. Her ladyship wait for me.”
“So do I,” said Tom. “Hang her ladyship’s hair-dye and all her other secrets; I mean about the organ—Mr Melton. Ah, you’re a nice one, Justine.”