“ Mr. Fledgeby in his shower-bath, perhaps,” remarked the lady, smiling.
“And somebody’s beating a carpet, I think?”
“ Mr. Fledgeby’s carpet, I dare say,” replied the smiling lady.
Miss Wren had a reasonably good eye for smiles, being well accustomed to them on the part of her young friends, though their smiles mostly ran smaller than in nature. But she had never seen so singular a smile as that upon this lady’s face. It twitched her nostrils open in a remarkable manner, and contracted her lips and eyebrows. It was a smile of enjoyment too, though of such a fierce kind that Miss Wren thought she would rather not enjoy herself than do it in that way.
“Well!” said the lady, watching her. “What now?”
“I hope there’s nothing the matter!” said the dressmaker.
“Where?” inquired the lady.
“I don’t know where,” said Miss Wren, staring about her. “But I never heard such odd noises. Don’t you think I had better call somebody?”
“I think you had better not,” returned the lady with a significant frown, and drawing closer.
On this hint, the dressmaker relinquished the idea, and stood looking at the lady as hard as the lady looked at her. Meanwhile the dressmaker listened with amazement to the odd noises which still continued, and the lady listened too, but with a coolness in which there was no trace of amazement.
Soon afterwards, came a slamming and banging of doors; and then came running downstairs, a gentleman with whiskers, and out of breath,