“Don’t! You make me laf.”
“Then—do it,” Mrs. Sixsmith serenely said, resting her left knee against an empty keg of beer.
“They’re not back from the theatre yet.”
“Turn for us till they come.”
Mr. Smee dashed from a crimpled brow a wisp of drooping hair.
“By your leave, ladies,” he said, “I’ll just slip across to the Old Boar and Castle and sample a snack at the bar.”
“Don’t run off, Mr. Smee. You really mustn’t. On tiles, they say, one usually meets with cats.”
“Oh, my word.”
Mrs. Sixsmith placed a hand to her hip in the style of an early John.
“How long is it—say—since we met?” she inquired. “Not since my wedding, I do believe.”