“He is not. Well, anyway, I’m hoping he’s not. It’s what I come here to find out.”
Mr. Twist’s mind had returned to the perplexing matter of the marriage.
“I don’t get this,” he said. “I saw Soapy a couple of weeks back and he didn’t say he’d even met you.”
“He hadn’t then. We only run into each other ten days ago. I was walking up the Haymarket and I catch sight of a feller behind me out of the corner of my eye, so I faint on him, see?”
“You’re still in that line, eh?”
“Well, it’s what I do best, isn’t it?”
Chimp nodded. Dora Molloy—Fainting Dolly to her friends—was unquestionably an artist in her particular branch of industry. It was her practice to swoon in the arms of rich-looking strangers in the public streets and pick their pockets as they bent to render her assistance. It takes all sorts to do the world’s work.
“Well, then I seen it was Soapy, and so we go to lunch and have a nice chat. I always was strong for that boy, and we were both feeling kind of lonesome over here in London, so we fix it up. And now I’m sim’ly miserable.”
“What,” inquired Mr. Twist, “is biting you?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. This is what’s happened: Last night this bird Soapy goes out after supper and doesn’t blow in again till four in the morning. Four in the morning, I’ll trouble you, and us only married two days. Well, if he thinks a young bride’s going to stand for that sort of conduct right plumb spang in the middle of what you might call the honeymoon, he’s got a second guess due him.”