"Don't go away," she said, "I've got something to tell you."
"Not now, I think--"
Her eyes were hideous to him in their great rings of paint and bistre.
"Why ever not? It'll only tyke a minute. Come in; there's nobody up
there that matters."
And because he had no desire to be brutal or uncivil, he went up into
the room he knew so well. It being summer, the folding doors were
thrown wide open, and in the room beyond they came upon a large lady
in a dirty tea-gown, eating lobster. For Poppy, now that she saw
respectability departing from her, held out to it a pathetic little
hand, and the tea-gown, pending an engagement as heavy matron on the
provincial stage, was glad enough to play Propriety in Miss Grace's
drawing-room. To-night Poppy made short work of Propriety. She waited
with admirable patience while the large lady (whom she addressed
affectionately as Tiny) followed up the last thin trail of mayonnaise;
but when Tiny showed a disposition to toy with the intricacies of an
empty claw, Poppy protested.
"Hurry up and clear out, there's a dear. I want to give Rickets his
supper, and we haven't got a minute to spare."
And Tiny, who seemed to know her business, hurried up and cleared out.
But Rickets didn't want any supper, and Poppy was visibly abstracted
and depressed. She mingled whipped cream with minute fragments of
lobster, and finally fell to torturing a sandwich with a spoon; and
all with an immense affectation of not having a minute to spare.
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