It was Mr. Marrapit's wise rule that each member of his establishment should pass before him as he or she sought their chambers. Night is the hour when the thoughts take on unbridled licence; and he would send his household to sleep each with some last admonition to curb fantastic wanderings of the mind.
Upon this night Mr. Marrapit was himself abed of the chill that Margaret had mentioned in her note to Bill. But the review was not therefore foregone. Upon his back, night-capped head on pillow propped, he lay as the minute-hand of his clock ticked towards ten.
His brow ruffled against a sound without his door. He called:
“Mrs. Armitage!”
“Sir?” spoke Mrs. Armitage through the oak.
“Breathe less stertorously.”
Mrs. Armitage, his cook, waiting outside upon the mat, gulped wrath; respirated through open mouth.
The clock at Mr. Marrapit's elbow gave the first chime of ten. Instantly Mrs. Armitage tapped.
“Enter,” said Mr. Marrapit.
She waddled her stout figure to him. Behind her Clara and Ada, those trim maids, took place.