“Who’s that?” said Belle, sticking her head through the curtains. “Oh, it’s only you!”
Tootles put his hand on his heart and made several rapid bows.
“Thanks—thanks for this ovation!”
“What have ye been doing all this while?” Pansy condescended to say, and, as though this were a soul-confidence, she raised her eyes liquidly and allowed her glance to flutter in his in one of those destructive looks which do not need to be taught at high school.
“It’s my birthday,” said Tootles, hoping to derive some future advantage; “and I am arranging for my friends to give me a surprise-party.”
“Go wan,” said Pansy, who, having treated him to a melting look, now froze him with one of indifferent disdain. However, the scent of dinner in the air demanded a certain diplomacy. She smiled. “What is it—feed or show?”
“It is my birthday,” said Tootles indignantly. “Don’t you think I was born, the same as you?”
“Come off!” said Belle, who emerged from behind the curtains with her hat on. “I’ll bet they picked you off a tree.”
“My dear girl,” said Tootles, who resorted to his defensive English accent, “it would be far better if you attended to your own troubles. At this very moment, Flick may be a suicide. He started for the river.”
“He may choke to death,” said Belle scornfully, “but he’ll never end in water.”