He ordered a cup of coffee. He said he was waiting for someone, and we
got to chatting about old times.

"How's Carrots?" I asked.

"Miss Caroline Trevelyan," he answered, "is doing well."

"Oh," I says, "you've found out her fam'ly name, then?"

"We've found out one or two things about that lidy," he replies. "D'yer
remember 'er dancing?"

"I have seen her flinging her petticoats about outside the shop, when the
copper wasn't by, if that's what you mean," I says.

"That's what I mean," he answers. "That's all the rage now,
'skirt-dancing' they calls it. She's a-coming out at the Oxford
to-morrow. It's 'er I'm waiting for. She's a-coming on, I tell you she
is," he says.

"Shouldn't wonder," says I; "that was her disposition."

"And there's another thing we've found out about 'er," he says. He leant
over the table, and whispered it, as if he was afraid that anybody else
might hear: "she's got a voice."

"Yes," I says, "some women have."

"Ah," he says, "but 'er voice is the sort of voice yer want to listen