“I didn’t know he had a latch key,” I observed.
“I gave him one to-day,” said Mrs. Preedy. “He is looking for a situation, poor young man, and asked me for a latch key, as he might have to keep out late at night, and didn’t like to disturb me.”
“Very considerate of him,” I said. “What kind of situation is he after? Is he anything at all?”
“He is a professor of languages, Becky, and a musician besides.”
“What kind of musician?” I asked, scornfully. “A trombone player?”
“I can’t say, Becky.”
“Does he play the cornet, or the fiddle,” I continued, with a certain recklessness which overcame me for a few moments, “or the harp, or the flute, or the piano?” And as I said “or the piano?” a dish I was wiping slipped clean out of my hands, and was broken to pieces.
“What a careless girl you are, Becky!” cried my mistress. “That makes the third you have broken since you’ve been here.”
“Never mind,” I said, “I have had a legacy left me.”
She stared at me, and cried “A legacy!” And, upon my word, my dear, until she repeated the words, I scarcely knew what it was I had said. However, I was committed to it now, and was bound to proceed.