“Am I so little?”
“What’s in a name!” and she passed on with a significant side glance and an arch lifting of the chin.
Dr. Little, a black-chinned, tailor-waisted, superfine person, with a distinct “air,” proceeded on a hypothetical expedition up the stairs. He had remembered leaving his latch-key in his bedroom, a useful excuse for meeting a pretty woman on the way, as though the coincidence were supremely natural.
“Au revoir.”
Miss Ellison favored him with an undeniable wink as she picked up a pink parasol from the hall table. She was one of those women who remind one forcibly of the stage-beauty as seen on very young men’s mantel-pieces. Madge Ellison would show as much of an open-work stocking as was compatible with social refinement. A retroussé nose and a round and rather cheeky chin associated themselves naturally with her methods of fascination.
“Madge!”
“Yes, dear.”
“Here, quick, I want you!”
“Bless my soul, why this tragic note?”
“Look, the window; do you recognize any one by the church-railings?”