“Have you been to Drury yet, Miss Pearson?”
No, but Miss Pearson’s best boy had promised to take her next Monday—Monday being her night out.
“I envy you, Miss Pearson,” said the heir to the barony with emotion. “And the young chap—of course.”
“Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Miss Pearson, “do you know what my impression is?”
Mr. Shelmerdine had not the faintest notion what Miss Pearson’s impression was.
“My impression, Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Miss Pearson, “is that you are in love.”
No rebutting evidence being put in, Miss Pearson grew grave and serious as became a young lady of good Scottish lineage on the spindle side.
“If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Shelmerdine, you’ll go a short sea voyage. I’ve noticed a deterioration in you during the last fortnight. It is far worse than when Cassie Smallpiece was at the Gaiety. I shall go and see for myself on Monday, but I’ve no opinion of actresses as a class. It is time you married that Lady Adela, you know.”
It was the first time that Miss Pearson had been moved to these communications as far as this particular client was concerned; but the fair president of the smartest florist in Piccadilly was a lady of considerable social insight.
“Well, Miss Pearson,” said the heir to the barony, slowly and thoughtfully, “you know that I always value your opinion, but Mary Caspar is an absolute nailer.”