"
For the first time in her life Miss Tilly sat down to a meal served by
a member of her late profession. She sat on the edge of Miss
Thackeray's bed and held a chicken sandwich in one hand and a full
glass of beer in the other. Be it said to the credit of her forebears,
she did not take even so much as a sip from the glass, but seven
sandwiches, two slices of cold ham, half a box of sardines, a plate of
potato salad, a saucer of Boston baked beans, two hardboiled eggs, a
piece of apple pie and two cups of coffee passed her freshly carmined
lips. She was in her seventh heaven. She was no longer dreaming of
fame: it was a gay reality. Emulating the example of Miss Thackeray,
she addressed Mr. Dillingford as "dear," and came near to being the
cause of his death by strangulation.
Miss Cameron submitted to the contagion. She had had no such dreams as
Miss Tilly's, but she was quite as thrilled by the novelty of her
surroundings, the informality of the feast, and the sprightliness of
these undaunted spirits. She sat on Miss Thackeray's trunk, her back
against the wall, her bandaged foot resting on a decrepit suit-case.
Her eyes were sparkling, her lips ever ready to part in the joy of
laughter, the colour leaping into her cheeks in response to the
amazing quips of these unconventional vagabonds.
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