At this moment a waiter, or as Bumpkin called him a pew opener, was passing, and Horatio whispered something in his ear, his companion looking at him the while from the corner of his eyes.
“The one on the right,” whispered the waiter, untwisting the wire of a bottle of sodawater, “is the Countess Squeezem, and the other is Lady Flora, her sister.”
Bumpkin nodded his head as much as to say, “Just see that: high life, that, if you like!”
And really the Countess and Lady Flora were as quiet and unassuming as if they had been the commonest bred people in the world.
Now came forward on the stage a sweet young lady dressed in yellow satin, with lovely red roses all down the front and one on the left shoulder, greeted by a thunder of applause. Her voice was thrilling: now it was at the back of the stage; now it was just behind your ear; now in the ceiling. You didn’t know where to have it. After she had done, Horatio said:
“What do you think of Nilsson?”
“Wery good! wery good!”
“Hallo,” says Horatio, “here’s Sims Reeves. Bravo Sims! bravo Reeves!”
“I’ve eered tell o’ he,” says Bumpkin; “he be wery young, bean’t he?”
“O,” says Horatio, “they paint up so; but ain’t he got a tenor—O gemminey crikery!”