“Is Mr. Bannister in?”
The girl stared, and the old lady put down her wool. John Gore took off his hat to her.
“May I see Mr. Bannister himself, madam?”
“Titsy, go and see where the master is.”
And Titsy went, with a flaunting fling of the shoulders, for the man had not taken off his hat to her.
Mr. Bannister was a mild man in rusty brown. John Gore could see that he had just washed his hands and bustled into his Sunday wig, for he had put it on awry. He came forward with the walk of a man who suffered from chronic rheumatism about the spine, and he was wearing at least five pairs of stockings, to judge by his bulgy legs.
John Gore persuaded him to the end of the counter next the door, not at all pleased to see that Titsy of the ribbons had come back into the shop and was listening with both her ears.
“Good-day, sir. In what way may I serve you?”
“I want some of these stuffs here, God knows what you call them, stuff for gowns and petticoats—and—and—things!”
The need seemed rather vague and extensive. Mr. Bannister worked his mouth about, and wondered who the stranger was and whether he had proper money. The girl Titsy began to giggle, and John Gore half wished that he had let Mrs. Winnie come and do the shopping for him, though her taste was crude and monstrous in many ways.