"Jolly good!" said Billy Foot, taking his cigar out of his mouth and wiping away a furtive tear. "But there, she is a ripper, bless her!" His tone was distinctly affectionate. But supper was the great event to Andy: that was all new to him, and he took it in eagerly while they waited for the Nun and her friend. Such a din, such a chatter, such a lot of diamonds, such a lot of smoke--and the white walls, the gilding, the pink lampshades, the band ever and anon crashing into a new tune, and the people shouting to make themselves heard through it--Andy would have sat on happily watching, even though he had got no supper at all. Indeed he was no more hungry than most of the other people there. One does not go to supper there because one is hungry--that is a vulgar reason for eating. However supper he had, sitting between Billy Foot and the Nun's friend, a young woman named Miss Dutton, who had a critical, or even sardonic, manner, but was extremely pretty. The Nun herself contrived to be rather like a nun even off the stage; she did not talk much herself, but listened with an innocent smile to the sallies of Billy Foot and Harry Belfield. "Been to hear her?" Miss Dutton asked Andy. Andy said that they had, and uttered words of admiration. "Sort of thing they like, isn't it?" said Miss Dutton. "You can't put in too much rot for them." "But she sings it so--" Andy began to plead. "Yes, she can sing. It's a wonder she's succeeded. How sick one gets of this place!" "Do you come often?" "Every night--with her generally." "I've never been here before in my life." "Well, I hope you like the look of us!" Harry Belfield looked towards him. "Don't mind what she says, Andy. We call her Sulky Sally--don't we, Sally?--But she looks so nice that we have to put up with her ways." Miss Dutton smiled reluctantly, but evidently could not help smiling at Harry. "I know the value of your compliments," she remarked. "There are plenty of them going about the place to judge by!" "Mercy, Sally, mercy! Don't show me up before my friends!"