He drew his chair a little closer to hers.
“Would you?” he added, almost in a whisper.
Mr. Laycock, who was in raptures over Miss Schley’s performance, had got up to speak to Fritz, but found the latter being steadily hypnotised by Mrs. Leo’s trumpet, which went up towards his mouth whenever he opened it. He bellowed distracted nothings but could not make her hear, obtaining no more fortunate result than a persistent flutter of pink eyelids, and a shrill, reiterated “The what? The what?”
A sharp tap came presently on the box door, and Mrs. Wolfstein’s painted face appeared. Lord Holme sprang up with undisguised relief.
“What d’you think of Pimpernel? Ah, Mr. Laycock—I heard your faithful hands.”
“Stunnin’!” roared Lord Holme, “simply stunnin’!”
“Stunnin’! stunnin’!” exclaimed Mr. Laycock; “Rippin’! There’s no other word. Simply rippin’!”
“The what? The what?” cried Mrs. Ulford.
Mrs. Wolfstein bent down, with expansive affection, over Lady Holme’s chair, and clasped the left hand which Lady Holme carelessly raised to a level with her shoulder.
“You dear person! Nice of you to come, and in such a gown too! The angels wear white lace thrown together by Victorine—it is Victorine? I was certain!—I’m sure. D’you like Pimpernel?”