The offices of Milady's Boudoir were in one of those rummy streets in the Covent Garden neighbourhood; and I had just got to the door, after wading through a deep top-dressing of old cabbages and tomatoes, when who should come out but Mrs Little. She greeted me with the warmth due to the old family friend, in spite of the fact that I hadn't been round to the house for a goodish while.
'Whatever are you doing in these parts, Bertie? I thought you never came east of Leicester Square.'
'I've come to deliver an article of sorts which my Aunt Dahlia asked me to write. She edits a species of journal up those stairs. Milady's Boudoir.'
'What a coincidence! I have just promised to write an article for her, too.'
'Don't you do it,' I said earnestly. 'You've simply no notion what a ghastly labour—Oh, but, of course, I was forgetting. You're used to it, what?'
Silly of me to have talked like that. Young Bingo Little, if you remember, had married the famous female novelist, Rosie M. Banks, author of some of the most pronounced and widely read tripe ever put on the market. Naturally a mere article would be pie for her.
'No, I don't think it will give me much trouble,' she said. 'Your aunt has suggested a most delightful subject.'
'That's good. By the way, I spoke to my man Jeeves about getting you a housemaid. He knows all the hummers.'
'Thank you so much. Oh, are you doing anything tomorrow night?'