STEVE. ‘Smoking is a blessed companion to a lonely devil like myself.’
RICHARDSON. ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharply, ‘Would you say devil to a real lady, sir?’
Steve, it may be hoped, is properly confused, but here the little idyll of the chop is brought to a close by the tinkle of a bell. Richardson springs to attention.
‘That will be the friends you are expecting?’
STEVE. ‘I was only half expecting them, but I daresay you are right. Have you finished, Richardson?’
RICHARDSON. ‘Thereabouts. Would a real lady lick the bone—in company I mean?’
STEVE. ‘You know, I hardly think so.’
RICHARDSON. ‘Then I’m finished.’
STEVE, disappearing, ‘Say I’ll be back in a jiffy. I need brushing, Richardson.’
Richardson, no longer in company, is about to hold a last friendly communion with the bone when there is a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a mysterious lady. You could never guess who the lady is, so we may admit at once that it is Miss Amy Grey. Amy is in evening dress—her only evening dress—and over it is the cloak, which she is presently to fling back with staggering effect. Just now her pale face is hiding behind the collar of it, for she is quaking inwardly though strung up to a terrible ordeal. The room is not as she expected, but she knows that men are cunning.