Mrs. Sixsmith was overcome.
“A-wheel,” Miss Sinquier’s dresser disrespectfully said, “how was the poor man to tell? Both the blighters—God forgive me—are equally on their last legs.”
Miss Sinquier shivered.
“Is it a good house?” she inquired.
“Splendid. Outside they’re flying five ‘full’ boards.... There’s not a single vacant place. Poor Sydney Iphis gave half a guinea for a seat in the slips.”
“Are you here all alone?”
“I’m with Sir Oliver Dawtry,” Mrs. Sixsmith replied, “except when I’m running about!... Can I sell anyone anything?” she inquired, raising sonorously her voice. “Vanilla! Caramel! Chocolate!... Comfits,” she warbled.
“What have you netted?”
“Eighteenpence only, so far;—from such an angel!”
“Comfits, did you say?” a round-faced, piquant little woman asked.