“Mr. Shottah?”
“Yes,” said Sam. He was surprised to see Mrs. Molloy. He had not expected visitors at so early a period of his tenancy. This, he supposed, must be the suburban equivalent of the county calling on the new-comer. Impressed by the hat, he assumed Dolly to be one of the old aristocracy of Valley Fields. A certain challenging jauntiness in her bearing forbade the suspicion that she was collecting funds for charity. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank yaw. Thank yaw so much. The house agent told me your name.”
“Cornelius?”
“Gink with a full set of white whiskers. Say, somebody ought to put that baby wise about the wonderful invention of the safety razor.”
Sam agreed that this might be in the public interest, but he began to revise his views about the old aristocracy.
“I’m afraid you’ll find the place in rather a mess,” he said apologetically, leading the way to the drawing-room. “I’ve only just moved in.”
The visitor replied that, on the contrary, she thought it cute.
“I seem to know this joint by heart,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about it from old pop.”
“I don’t think I am acquainted with Mr. Popp.”