Mrs. Sixsmith clasped prayerfully her hands.
“And in Mr. Smee,” she said, “I see the makings of a fine Friar Lawrence!”
“How’s that?”
“With a few choice concetti.”
“Faith!”
“I see the lonely cell, the chianti-flask, the crucifix....”
“Gosh!”
“I see Verona ... the torrid sky ... the town ascending, up, up, up. I hear the panting nurse. She knocks. Your priest’s eyes glisten. She enters, blouse-a-gape—a thorough coster. You raise your cowl.... Chianti? She shakes her head. Benedictine? No! no! A little Chartreuse, then? Certainly not! Nothing.... You squeeze her waist. Her cries ‘go through’ Lady Capulet and her daughter in the distant city on their way to mass. Romeo enters. So!” Mrs. Sixsmith broke off as Mr. Weathercock and a curly-headed lad, followed by a swathed woman and a whey-faced child, showed themselves upon the stairs.
Mrs. Sixsmith sought Miss Sinquier’s arm.
“Listen to me, my darling!” she said.