"
Gyp murmured:
"It's a question of atmosphere, isn't it?"
Mr. Wagge shook his head.
"No; I don't hold with incense--we're not 'Igh Church. But how are YOU,
ma'am? We often speak of you. You're looking well."
His face had become a dusky orange, and Mrs. Wagge's the colour of
a doubtful beetroot. The dog on Gyp's feet stirred, snuffled, turned
round, and fell heavily against her legs again. She said quietly:
"I was hearing of Daisy only to-day. She's quite a star now, isn't she?"
Mrs. Wagge sighed. Mr. Wagge looked away and answered:
"It's a sore subject. There she is, making her forty and fifty pound a
week, and run after in all the papers. She's a success--no doubt
about it. And she works. Saving a matter of fifteen 'undred a year, I
shouldn't be surprised. Why, at my best, the years the influenza was so
bad, I never cleared a thousand net. No, she's a success."
Mrs. Wagge added:
"Have you seen her last photograph--the one where she's standing between
two hydrangea-tubs? It was her own idea."
Mr. Wagge mumbled suddenly:
"I'm always glad to see her when she takes a run down in a car. But I've
come here for quiet after the life I've led, and I don't want to think
about it, especially before you, ma'am. I don't--that's a fact."
A silence followed, during which Mr. and Mrs. Wagge looked at their
feet, and Gyp looked at the dog.
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