"Good afternoon," she said faintly.
"Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y'ad job f'r me. Came here squick scould."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Squick scould. Got slow taxi."
"Oh, yes."
Miss Trimble's right eye flashed about the room like a searchlight, but she kept the other hypnotically on her companion's face.
"Whass trouble?" The right eye rested for a moment on a magnificent Corot over the mantelpiece, and she snifted again. "Not s'prised y'have trouble. All rich people 've trouble. Noth' t'do with their time 'cept get 'nto trouble."
She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.
"You—ah—appear to dislike the rich," said Mrs. Pett, as nearly in her grand manner as she could contrive.
Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been a small fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashed it flat.