“He d-doesn’t t-think he s-said a-anything,” said one lady to the other, “he d-doesn’t t-think he s-said a-anything.”
Miss Hermione Leigh then turned to Mr. William Jordan.
“You are funny,” she said.
Before Mr. Jordan could find a fitting rejoinder to an indictment which seemed to baffle him completely, his friend Mr. Davis sauntered up to the sofa. His hands were in his pockets; his demeanour was one of inimitable nonchalance.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Chrissie, “look what’s blown in! How’s Percival?”
“So, so,” said Mr. Davis, with an air of polite weariness.
“I s’pose you know Hermione?”
“Only on Saturdays,” said Mr. Davis, with a humility that seemed to be finely considered, “when I draw my screw.”
“Oh come, Percy,” said Miss Hermione Leigh, with amiable protest, “I reckon to know you at least two days a week since you have had a rise in your salary.”
“Not you,” said Mr. Davis, with quiet good nature. “One supper at the Troc of a Saturday with a half-bottle of Pommery, and it is all blewed bar the washing money. You know very well, Hermione, you cut mugs like me dead when we come sneaking out of Lockhart’s all the rest of the week.”