“Oh! your day must have been jolly. Did you wear peg-top trousers, and dundreary's?”
Old Heythorp nodded.
“What larks! And I suppose you had lots of adventures with opera dancers and gambling. The young men are all so good now.” Her eyes rested on Bob Pillin. “That young man's a perfect stick of goodness.”
Old Heythorp grunted.
“You wouldn't know how good he was,” Phyllis went on musingly, “unless you'd sat next him in a tunnel. The other day he had his waist squeezed and he simply sat still and did nothing. And then when the tunnel ended, it was Jock after all, not me. His face was—Oh! ah! ha! ha! Ah! ha!” She threw back her head, displaying all her white, round throat. Then edging near, she whispered:
“He likes to pretend, of course, that he's fearfully lively. He's promised to take mother and me to the theatre and supper afterwards. Won't it be scrummy! Only, I haven't anything to go in.”
Old Heythorp said: “What do you want? Irish poplin?”
Her mouth opened wide: “Oh! Guardy! Soft white satin!”
“How many yards'll go round you?”
“I should think about twelve. We could make it ourselves. You are a chook!”