As soon as everyone was thoroughly tired and disposed to sit quiet for half an hour or so, a girl (a stranger from the West End like myself) was asked by the hostess to play something, and accordingly, thinking as I should have done, that they preferred lively tunes, sat down and began to rattle off some "catchy" popular airs.
She was unceremoniously stopped by Belinda Ann—
"'Ere, we don't want that rot!"
"Oh," mildly replied the unfortunate pianist, not quite knowing what to say; "I thought you liked variety?"
"No, we don't," retorted the other, misunderstanding her and thinking she meant the music hall close by; "the V'riety costs tuppence an' we can't 'ford it."
"Well, what would you like?" was the inquiry.
"Give us 'We are rout on the ocean syling,' or 'God be with you till we meet agyne,'" and this request being complied with, these favourite hymns were shouted out at the top of their voices, Belinda Ann's in particular being like a clarion.
After this a diversion was created by one of the "pickles" volunteering a recitation which she gave with a good deal of dramatic power; then another girl sang a little song, and Belinda Ann followed with a second, and so the evening wore away to its close; but I felt dissatisfied, for I seemed no nearer attaining my object than before.
Taking the opportunity, I forcibly detained Belinda Ann as she was drifting by, and diffidently observed—
"You've told me what you work at, but how do you amuse yourself?"