“‘Beautiful,’ ses Mrs. Pottle.
“Flora didn’t say anything. She sat there shuffling ’er feet on the carpet, and Foxy Green kept on looking at ’er and waiting for ’er to speak, and ’oping that she wouldn’t grow up like ’er mother.
“‘Go on, Flora,’ ses Mrs. Pottle, nudging ’er.
“‘Go on, Flora,’ ses Henery Walker, mimicking ’er. ‘I s’pose you’ve come to ask Foxy a question by the look of it?’
“‘Yes,’ ses Flora, looking up. ‘Are you quite well, Mr. Green?’
“‘Yes, yes,’ ses Foxy; ‘but you didn’t come up ’ere to ask me that.’
“‘It’s all I could do to get ’er ’ere at all, Mr. Green,’ says Mrs. Pottle; ‘she’s that shy you can’t think. She’d rather ha’ ’ad you ask ’er yourself.’
“‘That can’t be done,’ ses Foxy, shaking ’is ’ead. ‘Leastways, I’m not going to risk it.’
“‘Now, Flora,’ ses ’er mother, nudging ’er agin.
“‘Come on, Flora Pottle,’ ses Bob Hunt; we’re all a-waitin’.’