The woman nodded.
“At what time?”
“You will be sure to find me in after eight o’clock.”
“I’ll call, if you give me permission to do so.”
“Good! Call by all means. Adieu for the present. You won’t forget?”
And with these parting words she tripped lightly over the pavement.
“Ah! I’ll call; she may depend upon that,” muttered Bill, after she had left; “there won’t be any harm in my giving her a look in. Probably she may put me up to a thing or two. A clever woman—a mighty clever woman—and isn’t she up to the knocker? As fresh as a four-year-old, and jolly well groomed too!”
When the specified time arrived, Mr. Rawton gave a modest knock at the door, and was thrown into the presence of the mistress of the house, who treated him hospitably enough. A substantial repast was placed before him, together with some old ale. The gipsy elected to partake of the last-named beverage. He was not much of a hand at wine, but as to malt liquor, he could take any quantity of it.
“Here’s to you, marm,” said he, raising a foaming tankard to his lips. “My respects and thanks at the same time. You aint one of those who deserts a cove when he’s down, and I aint one as is likely to forget your kindness.”
“Never mind that. I don’t want any protestations. Eat and drink, and make yourself as happy as you can under existing circumstances. And so Peace had to do his seven years—had he?”