“You ain't on the list, mum.”
“What list?” inquired the fairy with interest. “And why should I be on it?”
“Not you, mum. The house.”
He re-covered his head and contemplated her speculatively. She returned his regard with sparkling eyes and a dimpling and twitching mouth.
“Why do you wear that extraordinary hat?” she broke out.
“Business,” murmured Dead-Men's-Shoes. “It's my business hat. If I could have a few words with you on business?”
“You've come at an unfortunate time,” said the brown-and-gold fairy. “There is a death in the family.”
“Yessum. I observed that the Grim Reaper had visited the premises,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes, who prides himself upon a stock of correct, elegant, and felicitous mortuary phrases. “May I proffer my humble condolences?” He removed the silk hat with an official and solemn flourish. “Are you the bereaved, mum?”
“The what?”
“The relic of the late lamented?”