“Dove?”
“From the top of the ’ippodrome, sir.”
Gaveston roared with laughter. “Into a teacup, I know!” he cried.
“You will ’ave your joke, sir, I can see,” smiled Mrs. Grimaldi, preening herself. “Beauty Clegg, the Bermondsey Mermaid, they called me on the programme, and my magenta tights suited me a treat, though I says it as shouldn’t.”
“I believe they still would, Mrs. Grimaldi,” he threw in, winningly.
“But after our marriage, Mr. Puffin was earnin’ good money, and ’e didn’t care about my goin’ on with me divin’, though ’e admitted straight that I ’ad a career in front of me. But besides, I was puttin’ on flesh.” The landlady gave a pathetic heave of her enormous frame. “So I lived like a lady afterwards.”
“And how long have you been here, then?” Gav asked.
“Well, twenty years ago, Mr. Grimaldi, ’e went before; and I was ’ard put to it till I set up ’ere.”
“I’m sorry to think that, Mrs. Grimaldi.”