“Don’t be foolish, sir. You haven’t got polished leather boots on,” pouting, with one shoulder raised.
“Perhaps that might escape the notice of the girls, even if they did see me,” remarks Edwin, looking down at his boots with a sudden distaste for them.
“Nothing escapes their notice, sir. And then I know what would happen. Some of them would begin reflecting on me by saying (for they are free) that they never will on any account engage themselves to lovers without polished leather boots. Hark! Miss Twinkleton. I’ll ask for leave.”
That discreet lady being indeed heard without, inquiring of nobody in a blandly conversational tone as she advances: “Eh? Indeed! Are you quite sure you saw my mother-of-pearl button-holder on the worktable in my room?” is at once solicited for walking leave, and graciously accords it. And soon the young couple go out of the Nuns’ House, taking all precautions against the discovery of the so vitally defective boots of Mr. Edwin Drood: precautions, let us hope, effective for the peace of Mrs. Edwin Drood that is to be.
“Which way shall we take, Rosa?”
Rosa replies: “I want to go to the Lumps-of-Delight shop.”
“To the—?”
“A Turkish sweetmeat, sir. My gracious me, don’t you understand anything? Call yourself an Engineer, and not know that ?”
“Why, how should I know it, Rosa?”
“Because I am very fond of them. But Oh! I forgot what we are to pretend. No, you needn’t know anything about them; never mind.”