There was a flash of eyes and teeth in the plain, insignificant face.
“Oh, yes,” said the little woman, “I live with Miss Speranza.”
Gerry’s tongue grew large, impeding utterance, and his palate dried up. Of all creatures upon earth this little tweed-ulstered woman, in the well-worn felt hat with the fatigued feather, seemed to him the most to be envied.
“You—you’re lucky,” he said lamely, and blushed up to the roots of his hair, and down to the tips of his toes.
“I’ve known her ever since she knew herself,” said the little companion. “We were girls together.” Gerry could have laughed in her middle-aged face, but he only handed her his card. “Oh yes,” she said after she had glanced at it. “I seem to know the name. You have written to her, haven’t you?”
“Sev-several times,” acquiesced Gerry hoarsely. “I have ta-taken the privilege.”
“A great many other young gentlemen have taken it too,” observed Miss Speranza’s companion.
Then, as the swing doors behind her opened to let out a blast of hot air and several grimy stage carpenters, and the swing doors before her parted to let in a blast of cold air as the men shouldered out, “Excuse me,” she said, and shivered, and moved as though to pass. “It is very cold here, and the brougham is waiting.”
“Beggin’ pardon!” said O’Murphy, looking out of his hole, “the groom sent his jooty, an’ the pole av a ’bus had gone clane through the back panel av the broom in a block off the Sthrand.... The horse kicked wan av his four shoes off, an’ they’ve gone back wid themselves to the stables to get the landau an’ pair——”
“Call a hansom,” said the plain little woman. “I—we can’t wait here all night!”