THE WALSHINGHAMS
"'Ere on a bit of business," said Kipps. "I thought you was away in Bruges."
"That's later," said Miss Walshingham. "We're stopping until my brother's holiday begins, and we're trying to let our house. Where are you staying in Folkestone?"
"I got a 'ouse of mine—on the Leas."
"I've heard all about your good fortune—this afternoon."
"Isn't it a Go!" said Kipps. "I 'aven't nearly got to believe it's reely 'appened yet. When that Mr. Bean told me of it you could 'ave knocked me down with a feather. . . . It's a tremenjous change for me."
He discovered Miss Coote was asking him whether he took milk and sugar. "I don't mind," said Kipps. "Jest as you like."
Coote became active handing tea and bread-and-butter. It was thinly cut, and the bread was rather new, and the half of the slice that Kipps took fell upon the floor. He had been holding it by the edge, for he was not used to this migratory method of taking tea without plates or table. This little incident ruled him out of the conversation for a time, and when he came to attend to it again they were talking about something or other prodigious—a performer of some sort—that was coming, called, it seemed, "Padrooski." So Kipps, who had dropped quietly into a chair, ate his bread-and-butter, said "No, thenk you" to any more, and by this discreet restraint got more freedom with his cup and saucer.
Apart from the confusion natural to tea, he was in
195
