“All right, sir. After the meet we met the wagginette with some of the quality in it coming from the station, and the young lady wid the black hair got into the tub and drove home with us.”
“Oh, she did, did she?” said Mr Fanshawe in an interested voice, as he brushed away at his hair.
“Yes, sir; and the big Mimber of Parlimint wid the white face wanted to get in and drive her, an’ she up and give him a slap in the face.”
“She what?” asked Mr Fanshawe, pausing with a brush in either hand.
“Not with her fist but her tongue, sir,” replied the informant. “‘You can put the childer in the wagginette, if there’s not room. Let me dhrive you,’ says he. ‘It’s the childer I wants to talk to,’ says she; and with that he shut up like a tiliscope, glass eye and all, for they say, sir, he’s got a glass eye in his head.”
Mr Fanshawe chuckled.
“Mr Robert,” continued Patsy, speaking in an apparently aimless manner, “he says, ‘That gintleman seems very sweet on you,’ says he; and with that she blushed up red wid vixation——”
“You seem to have very sharp eyes,” said Mr Fanshawe. “How do you know when a lady blushes with ‘vixation,’ as you call it?”
“Be the sparks that came into her eyes,” replied the observer.
“Well, now, spark off downstairs,” said Mr Fanshawe, “and tell them I’ll be down in a minute, and not to wait dinner for me.”