"I got a friend comin' presently. 'E's quite a 'andy young feller, an' tender-'earted: 'e won't leave yer like this, no fear. . . . But, o' course, it'll be a shock to 'im, 'appenin' in upon us an' findin'— well, so much more'n 'e expected. I'm thinkin' 'ow to break it to 'im gently, 'ere in the dark." Tilda considered for a while. "It might 'elp if I knew yer name. 'Twouldn' be fair—would it?—to start off that we'd got a surprise for 'im, an' would 'e guess?"
"He'll find out, fast enough, when he strikes a light," said the Fat
Lady between resigned despair and professional pride. "But my name's
Mrs. Lobb, when you introjuice him."
"Widow?"
"I don't know why you should suppose it."
"No," said Tilda after musing a moment; "there ain't no real reason, o' course. On'y I thought—An' you not mentionin' a nusband, under the circumstances."
To her astonishment, Mrs. Lobb gave way and shook with mountainous sobs.
"I'm a maiden lady," she confessed, "and I'll conceal it no longer, when, God knows, I may be lyin' here punished for my vanity. . . . But 'twasn't all vanity, neither: it sounded more comfortable. If it had been vanity, I'd ha' chosen Montmorency or St. Clair—not Lobb. Wouldn't I now? . . . Of course, you won't understand, at your age; but there's a sort of sheltered feelin'. An' I'm a bundle of nerves. You should see me," wound up Mrs. Lobb enigmatically, "with a mouse."
But at this moment Tilda whispered "'Ush!" Someone was stealthily lifting the vallance. "Is that you, Sam?" she challenged.
"Aye, aye, missie. All safe?"
"And snug. . . . Can yer risk striking a match? Fact is, we got a lady friend 'ere, an' she wants yer 'elp badly."