“Polly,” said a voice from the darkness, “what did that American-heiress-globe-trotter-girl say last season when she was tipped out of her 'rickshaw turning a corner? Some absurd adjective that made the man who picked her up explode.”
“'Paltry,'” said Mrs. Mallowe. “Through her nose—like this—'Ha-ow pahltry!'”
“Exactly,” said the voice. “Ha-ow pahltry it all is!”
“Which?”
“Everything. Babies, Diphtheria, Mrs. Bent and The Dancing Master, I whooping in a chair, and The Dowd dropping in from the clouds. I wonder what the motive was—all the motives.”
“Um!”
“What do you think?”
“Don't ask me. She was a woman. Go to sleep.”