“Oh, I don’t know. She belongs to a big shop; she has to be fine.”
“Won’t you have a pipe?” Mr. Vetch asked, pushing an old tobacco-pouch across the table; and while the young man helped himself he puffed a while in silence. “What will she do with you?” he finally asked.
“What will who do with me?”
“Your big beauty—Miss Henning. I know all about her from Pinnie.”
“Then you know what she’ll do with me!” Hyacinth returned with rather a scornful laugh.
“Yes, but, after all, it doesn’t very much matter.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hyacinth.
“Well, now the other thing—what do they call it? the Subterranean?—are you very deep in that?” the fiddler went on as if he had not heard him.
“Did Pinnie tell you also about that?”
“No, our friend Puppin has told me a good deal. He knows you’ve put your head into something. Besides, I see it,” said Mr. Vetch.