“But it ain’t nat’ral like, sir. You see, Sam’s too fat.”
“Oh no, Jaggs. He only looks as if Hebe and Ganymede had poured him out good potions of a prime vintage, and as if the honey of Hybla often melted in his mouth.”
“Well, sir, you knows best. Maria Budd says—”
“Who?”
“Miss Montesquieu, sir. She’s old Budd’s—the Somers Town greengrocer’s—gal.”
“Humph! Idiot! Well, what message has she sent? Not coming again?”
“No, sir. She’s very sorry, sir; but she’s got an engagement to early dinner at Brighton to-day, and won’t only be back in time to take her place in the chorus to-night.”
“Confound the woman! I shall never get the figure done. Do you know of any one else, Jaggs?”
“No, sir; and I’m afraid that you won’t after all be satisfied with her.”
“All, well, you needn’t wait. Seen Mr Pacey lately?”