The End of an Era

“I've stopped all the clocks, gentlemen,” said Enid.

“Thank you, Enid,” said Mr Boxe. “Just as it should be.”

“Miss Pond,” said Mr Foxe, “of course we must tell all the staff and clientele that there will be no business done for...well, for a few days.”

“Of course,” said Miss Pond. “The diary is emptied, and I have just put the last of the seamstresses into a taxi. She was in rather a state.”

“As attentive to detail as always,” said Mr Boxe. “Perfectly done.”

“One scarcely knows what else to do,” said Miss Pond.

“I propose that we toast her memory,” said Mr Boxe.

“Wiv Dubonnet and gin?” said Enid. “The old gal's favorite. We've both in the pantry.”

“Mind you, I have taken the pledge,” said Miss Pond, “but on this occasion I suppose...but...that is to say...but...oh dear me–”

“Oh, Pondsie,” said Enid. “Here, you take my hankie. There's a girl. For you, how's about strong tea and a slice of Victoria sponge. I made it today the way you like it best.”

“With bits of dried cricket on top?” said Miss Pond.

“That's right,” said Enid.

“You're so kind, Enid,” said Miss Pond. “So kind to a silly and sentimental old goose.”

“I think we're all sentimental old geese tonight,” said Enid.

“Exactly so,” said Mr Foxe. “Exactly so.”