“You must have a meringue,” she said. “Ah, Mrs. Pomeranian has them. Mrs. Pomeranian, let me present Mr. Gissing.”
Mrs. Pomeranian, small and plump and tightly corseted, offered the meringues, while Mrs. Beagle pressed upon him a plate with a small doily, embroidered with the arms of the store, and its motto je maintiendrai—referring, no doubt, to its prices. Mr. Beagle then introduced him to several more ladies in rapid succession. Gissing passed along the line, bowing slightly but with courteous interest to each. To each one he raised his eyebrows and permitted himself a small significant smile, as though to convey that this was a moment he had long been anticipating. How different, he thought, was this life of enigmatic gaiety from the suburban drudgery of recent months. If only Mrs. Spaniel could see him now! He was about to utilize a brief pause by sipping his tea, when a white-headed patriarch suddenly appeared beside him.
“Mr. Gissing,” said the vice-president, “this is my father, Mr. Beagle senior.”
Gissing, by quick work, shuffled the teacup into his left paw, and the meringue plate into the
