“You mean the Father Christmas at the door?”
“Tell me what had happened.”
In a few words Miss Sinquier recounted her tale.
“My dear,” Mrs. Sixsmith said, “I shouldn’t think of it again. I expect this Mrs. Bromley was nothing but an old procuress.”
“A procuress?”
“A stage procuress.”
“How dreadful it sounds.”
“Have you no artistic connections in town at all?”
“Not really....”
“Then here, close at hand ... sitting with you and me,” she informally presented, “Is Mr. Ernest Stubbs, whose wild wanderings in the Gog-magog hills in sight of Cambridge, orchestrally described, recently thrilled us all. Next to him—tuning his locks and twisting his cane—you’ll notice Mr. Harold Weathercock, an exponent of calf-love parts at the Dream. And, beyond, blackening her nose with a cigarette, sprawls the most resigned of women—Miss Whipsina Peters, a daughter of the famous flagelist—and a coryphée herself.”