He was in the full enjoyment of this spectacle when an odour of
cloves breathed across his face, and a voice addressed him.
"Isn't that you, Mr. Gammon? Well, if I didn't think so!"
The speaker was a young woman, who, with a male companion, had just
mounted the bus and seated herself at Gammon's back. Facing round he
recognized her as a friend of Polly Sparkes, Miss Waghorn by name,
who adorned a refreshment bar at the theatre where Polly sold
programmes. With a marked display of interesting embarrassment Miss
Waghorn introduced him to her companion, Mr. Nibby, who showed
himself cordial.
"I've often heard talk of you, Mr. Gammon; glad to meet you, sir. I
think it's Berlin wools, isn't it?"
"Well, it was, sir, but it's been fancy leather goods lately, and
now it's going to be something else. You are the Gillingwater
burners, I believe, sir?"
Mr. Nibby betrayed surprise.
"And may I ask you how you know that?"
"Oh, I've a good memory for faces. I travelled with you on the
Underground not very long ago, and saw the name on some samples you
had.
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