Folding an arm about her friend’s “wasp” waist, Mrs. Sixsmith whirled her deftly round to a wild street air:
“I like your ways,
I like your style,
You are my darling——”
she hummed as the organ stopped.
“Come to finish the evening?”
A small, thick-set, grizzled man with dark æsthetic eyes and a pinkish nose, the result maybe of continuously tinting it for music-hall purposes, addressed the breathless ladies in a broad, inquiring voice.
“Is that you, Mr. Smee?” Mrs. Sixsmith asked, surprised.
“Call me ‘Shawn.’”
“We’ve only come on business.”