Behind her, the woman’s eyes unshutter, and her small mouth opens into a tight ring. The feisty Mrs. Sloane had the same kind of mouth, just wide enough to poke in a soft-boiled egg, though she sure could raise a good fuss with it.

Charlotte’s lips move indecipherably, and her eyes slide to one side.

“What?” I mouth back, then continue on with my monologue. “She said to smear it on the patches once an hour.”

The woman scoots to the farthest edge of her chair. If she were a seal, she could just roll off and swim away.

“Pur-ple bow-ler,” Charlotte whispers, making a pecking motion with her finger.

I glance behind me. To my horror, a man wearing a purple bowler ambles toward us from the bow, his attention focused on the folded newspaper in his hands. A jockey-sized man in a valet’s black uniform trails him with a tray of tea.

I redouble my efforts. “Wouldn’t you know, the pustules are crusting over just like blackberry crumble. Here, let me show you.” I lean closer to Charlotte and pinch my veil with my fingers. “It’s not contagious, usually.”

With a horrified gasp, the woman makes a dash for it, her heels tapping with the fury of a typewriter delivering a shocking headline.

Charlotte lets out a heavy breath, and we share a relieved glance that surprises me with the pleasure it brings, like when a strange kitten cuddles up on your foot.

Mr. Stewart stops in front of his chair and tips his hat at us with barely a glance. He’s clearly the kind of man who wouldn’t notice women’s fashion if it came up and danced with him. His valet sets his tray on a side table, then helps Mr. Stewart out of his chesterfield coat.

Mr. Stewart waves him off. “Tea, Croggy.”

The valet presents Mr. Stewart with his tea, then stands like a potted plant beside him, his eyes hooded, the arm with the coat held straight as a towel rack.

Besides the purple bowler, the rest of Mr. Stewart seems ordinary. A plain sand-colored suit with a pinstriped waistcoat wraps his middling frame, and brown rubber-soled shoes look as faithful as a pair of beagles. It’s clear the man values comfort as well as flair. His eyes are the unremarkable brown shade of Bosc pears. I put him in his fifties, with a round face that has begun to jowl. The Chinese believe that jowls are like “money bags,” and the bigger they are, the more wealth they attract.

I switch my voice to Mrs. Sloane’s forthright manner. “Never seen the like, juggling all those things with a pineapple on her head. The astounding part was how she managed to talk at the same time. I can barely walk and talk at once.”

Mr. Stewart’s eyes, which had been glued to his paper, lift.