“Mr. Pangbutt’s father?”
“H’m, h’m! Yes. I assure you.”
“Dear me! And he has such a very distinguished manner!”
“And—d’you know?”
She whispered.
“Lady Persimmon? Indeed?”
The lady of the lorgnettes nodded mysteriously. The withered eyes expressed shocked surprise. She gave a funny little laugh. The lorgnettes were raised again, and she said, surveying the assembled guests critically through the glasses:
“I absolutely adore literary people—and artists—and actors—and those sort of persons. It is so strange to think they have all slept in attics. And really, it’s quite the fashion to go on the stage now.... Who’s the fright in the post-office red?... Oh! is it?... Lady Margaret’s son has gone on the stage.... Gerty, do you know who that dark creature is? with the Italian-looking person.... Oh, yes; and the young fellow is getting on wonderfully. You see, they like to have a gentleman on the stage—besides, he acts in the most gentlemanly manner—quite unlike a professional actor. And then, of course, his manager is rather exclusive—he called the company together the other day, and told them that he did not expect them to recognise him in the street. It’s so nice for the young fellow to be with such a gentleman.”
“Yes. Our gardener’s son has joined a circus too. Such an amusin’ boy, he was.”
“It brings it all so home to one, doesn’t it!”