“You’ll pardon me?”
“I say—rubbish, Denville.”
“Mamma, will you hold your tongue?”
“No, miss; if it comes to that, I won’t! Speaking like that to your own mother, who’s always working for you as I am, right out here on the open cliff, where goodness knows who mayn’t—”
“Mother, be silent!”
“Silent, indeed!”
“Ladies, ladies, you’ll pardon me. I say my powers here are—er—very limited.”
“Yes, I know all about that, but you must get invitations for mamma and me for the next Assembly.”
“I’ll try, Miss Dean, but—you’ll pardon me—”
“There, don’t shilly-shally with him, Betsy; it’s all business. Look here, Denville, the day the invitations come there’ll be five guineas wrapped up in silver paper under the chayny shepherdess on my droring-room mantelpiece, if you’ll just call and look under.”