“Where we get out,” said the young man. “Time we had a feed.”
“Dinnah,” said Joan, with a bright expression, and prepared to descend.
A small, white-faced, anxious woman appeared at the door. She was wearing amiability as one wears a Sabbath garment. Moreover, she had a greyish-black dress that ended in a dingy, stiff buff frilling at the neck and wrists.
“You Mrs. Pybus?” asked the young man.
“I been expecting you a nour,” said Mrs. Pybus, acquiescing in the name. “Is this the young lady and gentleman?”
That again was a question that needed no answer. The group halted awkwardly on the doorstep for a few seconds. “And this is Miss Joan?” said Mrs. Pybus, with a joyless smile. “I didn’t expect you to be ’arf yr’ size. And what a short dress they put you in! You must ’ave regular shot up. Makes you what I call leggy....”
This again was poor as a conversational opening.
“’Ow old might you be, dearie?” asked Mrs. Pybus.
“I’m eight,” said Joan. “But I’ll be nine soon.”
The young man for inscrutable reasons found this funny. He guffawed. “She’s eight,” he said to the world at large; “but she’ll be nine soon. That’s good, that is!”