The song stopped. A window of the room above opened and the Duchess’s voice could be heard upbraiding Mr. Leigh.
“Fat lot of good you do pottering about in the garden and pretendin’ you was born and bred in the country. Wish to goodness we was back in Ely Place again.”
Mr. Leigh begged that the Duchess would hold her row and let him get on with his scarlet runners in peace.
“Peace?” cried the Duchess, scornfully. “There’s a jolly sight too much peace about this dead and alive ’ole. I’m a woman used to a certain amount of seeciety.”
Mr. Leigh advised her to go downstairs and have a drop of beer and then get back to bed again.
“Beer and bed,” complained the Duchess with great contempt. “That’s about all there is in this place. I’d rather be Bat Miller and—”
“For goodness sake,” begged Mr. Leigh, “’ush.”
“Shan’t ’ush,” declared the Duchess, preparing to slam the window. “I shall tell everybody why we’re come ’ere and what you—”
Mr. Leigh, speaking for once with decision, said imperatively, “Shut that winder and shut your mouth, or else I’ll come and do both.”
The Duchess obeyed, and Bobbie stood back as he heard her coming in slippered feet down the stairs. Few of us look our best at six o’clock in the morning, and the Duchess formed no exception. It was not easy to glance at her without a shudder.