The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake. THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.’ No wonder they titter. MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that’s your name), but the word is Exquiseetos.’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘Much obliged’ (weeps). MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I think I heard a taxi.’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘It will be her third this week.’ They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten. THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘What is she in?’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with Venus sleeves.’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘Has she sold her gabardine coat?’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Not her! She has them both at the theatre, warm night though it is. She’s wearing the astrakhan, and carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘I saw her strutting about with him yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a procession.’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Hsh!’ peeping. ‘Strike me dead, if she’s not coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!’ Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it. Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don’t know how to describe it, but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do that. MRS. DOWEY. ‘Kenneth,’ affecting surprise, ‘we have visitors!’ DOWEY. ‘Your servant, ladies.’ He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of Mrs. Mickleham’s retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since you took the countess in to dinner. MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘We should apologise. We’re not meaning to stay.’