Still she refused to take the hint.
“Singular ’ow hanybody can write on a mourning henvelope with red hink,” she said, insinuatingly. “You don’t seem in any ’urry to hopen it.”
“I sometimes do not read my letters before retiring at night, as they are liable to make me wakeful. Good-night, Mrs. Bumley.”
“Good-night, gentlemen,” came reluctantly from her lips. “I ’opes you sleep well. Good-night.”
She went out, closing the door in a soft, stealthy way, which was natural with her.
“What a prying old hen she is!” exclaimed Frank, angrily.
The door opened quickly and silently, and Mrs. Bumley thrust her head in, cocking her crooked eye toward the boy.
“Did I ’ear you speak to me, sir?” she asked.
“No, madam! Good-night.”
“Good-night. Pleasant dreams.”