“You’re the daughter of Aggie Mummings, whom I used to know. You must be. Poor Aggie ... I remember your mother quite well—a feeble thing always, never knowing her mind and always wanted people’s advice. I used to say to her: ‘Aggie, if you let men see how feeble you are you’ll never get married’—but she did after all—which shows you never can tell—I think, Millie, I’ll have some more hot in this ... yes, I remember your mother very well, poor thing.”
“I’ve heard her speak of you, Miss Trenchard,” said Mrs. Drake.
Mr. Drake suddenly attacked Millie.
“Well now—about Paris—you know—very different from this hole, ain’t it?”
“Very different,” said Millie. “But I don’t consider this ‘a hole’.”
“Don’t you now? Well—that’s very interesting. Don’t you?... I do.”
Millie had nothing to say.
“It’s slow, you know—horrid slow—just weather, I call it. Whether it’s raining or not, you know—. Yes ... I wonder you don’t find it slow after Paris.”
“I was at school there, you see,” said Millie. “It’s different when you’re at school.”
“I suppose it is. Yes, I s’pose so.” He began to cram his fist into his mouth, was surprised at its boniness, regarded it gravely, said: “Well, yes ... I s’pose so ... Yes ... Well ...” and was silent.