"Oh, he's barmy in a way, else he wouldn't have taken up with me."
"Yes, that's true, dear. But did he say that about It?"
"Ye-es."
"Well, it's time she had a bit of luck ... if she's really going to have it. She wants it badly."
"Yes, by God."
At this moment Mr. Henry Harper came into the room. He entered very nervously with his usual blush of embarrassment. The truth was, although he had yet to realize it clearly, the undercurrent of sarcasm, never absent from this refined atmosphere, always hurt him. Mr. Henry Harper was a very sensitive plant, and these fashionable and witty ladies did not appear to know that.
"He's a swanker," was the greeting of Miss Press, as she offered her hand and then withdrew it playfully before Mr. Harper could take it. "And I never shake hands with a swanker, do I, Bonser?"
"But he's so clever," said Miss Bonser, politely offering hers. "He's Bert Hobson at his best."
Mr. Harper was so overcome by this reception that he had the misfortune to knock over the teapot, which had been placed on a small and ill-balanced Japanese table.
"Damn you!" The voice of the hostess came upon the culprit like the stroke of a whip. For a moment Miss Dobbs was off her guard. She was furious at the ruin of her carpet and her hospitality, although the latter was really the more important as the carpet was ruined already. "However, it doesn't matter." She hastened to cover the "Damn you" with a heroic smile. "Take a pew, Harry, and make yourself comfy. I can easily get some more; it's the slavey's Sunday out." The hostess, teapot in hand, withdrew from the room with a winning air of reconstituted amenity.