“Haven’t you got eyes?” asked Alice, leading the way upstairs and waving a hand in the direction of the shy youths.
“Gentlemen, I said,” remarked Louisa.
“I shall begin to wish I hadn’t asked you,” said Alice pettishly, “if you’re going on like that all the evening. I believe you only do it to annoy me.”
“What else could I do it for?” asked the short sister.
“Erb,” ordered the tall sister from the stairs, “you leave your hat and coat in that room. Thank goodness I’ve got a brother who knows how to behave. Good mind now not to titivate your hair for you.”
“You mustn’t mind me,” said Louisa, relenting at this threat. “It’s only me manner.”
They were received on returning downstairs by the housekeeper, a large important lady in black silk and with so many chains that she might have been a contented inmate of some amazingly gorgeous and generous prison; the housekeeper having been informed that Erb was an official on a South of England railway begged him to explain why, in travelling through Ireland during the winter, it was so difficult to obtain foot-warmers, and seemed not altogether satisfied with the reply that it was probably because the Irish railways did not keep them in sufficient quantities. The cook, also stout but short, engaged Erb for the first two dances, assuring him (this proved indeed to be a fact) that she was, in spite of appearances, very light on her toes, and quoting a compliment that had been paid to her by a perfect stranger, and therefore unbiased, at Holborn Town Hall in the early eighties.
“And this, Erb, is Jessie,” said Alice, introducing a large-eyed young woman in pale green. “Jessie is my very great friend.” She added, “Just at present.”
“I think you speak, Mr. Barnes?” said the large-eyed young woman earnestly.
“I open my mouth now and again,” admitted Erb, “just for the sake of exercising my face.”