“Here you are, sir,” she said cheerfully. “I bought one of each, like you said.” She beamed at Laura with affectionate solicitude, a beam so knowing that Laura, who did not naturally blush very easily, coloured up to the roots of her hair. For a habitual non-blusher, Laura had put in some very good work since she arrived at Sandersworth.
Fortunately Mr. Priestley was far too intent upon his newspapers to notice her facial activities.
“I hope the breakfast was satisfactory, mum,” said the landlady, hovering eloquently.
Mr. Priestley looked up for a moment. “Yes, thank you; we’ll ring when we want you, Mrs. Er—er—um,” he said in tones of such finality that the landlady had no option but to take a reluctant departure.
Laura looked at her pseudo-husband with renewed respect. Even she could not have got rid of the garrulous little woman quite so expeditiously.
“Well, anything about it?” she asked.
The Sunday Times followed The Observer on to the floor. “Nothing in either of those two, so far as I can see,” Mr. Priestley muttered, feverishly scuttering pages.
“Try The News of the World,” Laura advised.
Mr. Priestley did so, and added it to the growing heap on the floor. Two others followed. He opened The Sunday Courier.
“God bless my soul!” muttered Mr. Priestley.