announced a Pierrette, with finality.
"The girls won't find a single partner there"—
wailed a waxwork in a kilt (possibly Rob Roy or Harry Lauder)—
There was a break. The piano paused expectantly, and all the waxworks turned their heads (most unprofessionally) to see what had happened to Cherry Ripe, whose turn it was to sing the next verse. Apparently that lady had permitted her attention to wander, for she was scrutinising the audience, to the neglect of her cue. The sudden silence—or possibly the attentions of Master Jarley, who bustled up and assiduously oiled her mouth and ears—seemed to recall her errant wits.
"Sorry!" she remarked calmly, and sang in a clear voice,—
"Oh, what a mess! How are we to get out of it?"
"She sent for Mrs. Jarley on the spot!"
declaimed that lady triumphantly,
—"And the girls were quite content with what they got.
True, a dummy cannot flirt;
But he does not tear your skirt,
Or say that he can dance when he can not!"