The door-handle worked viciously; then came rap! rap! rap! rap!
“Tic—tic—tic; this is always the way. Who is there? Go away; you can't come here.”
“But I want to speak to you. What the deuce are you doing?” said through the keyhole the wretch that owned the room in a mere legal sense.
“We are trying a dress. Come again in an hour.”
“Confound your dresses! Who is we?”
“Lucy has got a new dress.”
“Aunt!” whispered Lucy, in a tone of piteous expostulation.
“Oh, if it is Lucy. Well, good-by, ladies. I am obliged to go to London at a moment's notice for a couple of days. You will have done by when I come back, perhaps,” and off went Bazalgette whistling, but not best pleased. He had told his wife more than once that the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms of a house are the public rooms, and the bedrooms the private ones.
Lucy colored with mortification. It was death to her to annoy anyone; so her aunt had thrust her into a cruel position.
“Poor Mr. Bazalgette!” sighed she.