"Go-hon! Comes 'ere for sympathy! Comes 'ere for my mince pies, y'mean!"
"Alice, that's not like you. Mind you, your mince pies are very, very good, my sweet. Your own fair hands—"
"Naughty boy!" Alice giggled. "Oh, do look aht! They're all floury!"
"I care not!" the Marquis responded passionately. "It's all right. It's only my fatigue dress."
Followed whispering. Then the Marquis sighed:
"Er—you haven't by any chance—got one—of those pies handy, have you, Alice?"
"Well, I never! 'Ere, wait a minute, then. Missus is out, so it's all right."
After a short silence the Marquis spoke again, thickly, through pastry:
"You know, you're a bit of a good sort, Alice, my dear."
"Ga-awn!" cooed Alice softly. Hector imagined her passing her hand over the Marquis' crisp black hair. "Y're not so bad yerself, Marky! But I wish...."