“I don't know what gentlemen wear in the evening or what they don't,” retorted the lank young man, who appeared to be in an aggressive mood. “If I can find one in this street, I'll ast him and let you know.”
“Mother in the droaring-room?” enquired Miss Sellars, ignoring the retort.
“They're all of 'em in the parlour, if that's what you mean,” returned the lank young man, “the whole blooming shoot. If you stand up against the wall and don't breathe, there'll just be room for you.”
Sweeping by the lank young man, Miss Sellars opened the parlour door, and towing me in behind her, shut it.
“Well, Mar, here we are,” announced Miss Sellars. An enormously stout lady, ornamented with a cap that appeared to have been made out of a bandanna handkerchief, rose to greet us, thus revealing the fact that she had been sitting upon an extremely small horsehair-covered easy-chair, the disproportion between the lady and her support being quite pathetic.
“I am charmed, Mr.—”
“Kelver,” supplied Miss Sellars.
“Kelver, to make your ac-quain-tance,” recited Mrs. Sellars in the tone of one repeating a lesson.
I bowed, and murmured that the honour was entirely mine.
“Don't mention it,” replied Mrs. Sellars. “Pray be seated.”