With that well-bred ease which was instinctive in even the farouchest of the ffoulises, Gav drew out her history in the course of their first interview. He began tactfully, by talking of himself for three-quarters of an hour—it gave Mrs. Grimaldi confidence.
“… and so on my advice she got divorced again,” he ended. “She’ll be up next term, I hope, and I know you’ll make friends with her, Mrs. Grimaldi.—But now, I’ve done all the talking so far,” he went on as the good woman appreciatively blushed. “Won’t you tell me something about yourself?”
She curtseyed, and began.
“On the font it was Selina Kensit, sir, they called me, but now it’s Mrs. Puffin really, though me ’usbin’ always called ’isself Grimaldi, perfessional like. I wish as you could ’a’ seen ’im, sir! W’y, ’e could put ’is ’ead through ’is legs and then juggle with lit candles and live ferrets fit to frighten you into pepilipsis. It gave me a fair turn, it did, first time as ever I see ’im. But soon I didn’t so much as turn an ’air. You see, I was an artiste meself.”
She nodded.
“And were you a contortionist too, Mrs. Grimaldi?” Gaveston asked, looking with amazement at her elephantine form, bulging and bursting in every direction from the crimson bombazine that vainly essayed to hold it in.
“Lor’ bless you, sir, I should ’ope not!”
“But what then——?”
“I dove.”