Buzza was without, and earnestly begged an
interview with Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. The Honourable Frederic
obligingly retired to smoke, and the visitor was shown in.
Her appearance was extraordinary. Her portly figure shook; her eyes
were red; her bonnet, rakishly poised over the left eye, had dragged
askew the "front" under it, as though its wearer had parted her hair
on one side in a distracted moment. A sob rent her bosom as she
entered.
"My poor soul!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "you are in trouble."
Mrs. Buzza tried to speak, but dropped into a chair and nodded
instead.
"What _is_ the matter?"
"It's--it's _him_."
"The Admiral?"
Mrs. Buzza mopped her eyes and nodded again.
"What has he done now?"
"S-said his bu-bu-breakfast was cold this mo-horning, and p-pitched
the bu-bu-breakfast set over the quay-door," she moaned. "Oh! w-what
shall I do?"
"Leave him!"
Mrs. Buzza clasped her hands and stared.
"You could see the m-marks quite plain," she wailed.
"What! Did he strike you?"
"I mean, on the bo-bottom of the c-cups. They were real
W-worcester."
"Leave him! Oh! I have no patience," and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys stamped
her little foot, "with you women of Troy. Will you always be dolls--
dolls with a painted smile for all man's insane caprices? Will you
never--?"
"I don't paint," put in Mrs.
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