On his departure, our conversation veered round to local chit-chat.
“Have you heard the news about The Terrace yet, Frank?” asked Miss Pimpernell.
“No,” I said. “What is it?”
“Number sixty-five is let at last!”
“Indeed,” said I; “how pleased old Shuffler must be, for the house has hung a long time on his hands. Who are the people that have taken it?”
“A widow lady and her daughter. Their name is Clyde, and they have a good deal of money, I believe,” said Bessie Dasher.
“Bai-ey Je-ove!” exclaimed Horner. “I say, old fellah, p’waps they ah those ladies in hawf-mawning, ah?”
“Dear me! this is quite interesting,” said Miss Spight. “Do let me know what the joke is about ladies in half-mourning, Mr Lorton—something romantic, I’ve no doubt.” She was always keen to scent out what might be disagreeable to other people, was Miss Spight!
“Oh, it’s only Horner’s nonsense!” said I. “But what are these Clydes like?”
“Very nice, indeed!” said Miss Pimpernell. “The mother is extremely well-bred and ladylike, and the daughter Minnie—such a pretty name, Frank—is quite a little darling. I’m positively in love with her, and I’m sure you will like her. They are very nice people indeed, my boy, and thorough acquisitions to our little society.”