"I'm very strict with them," he admitted. "I had to be after they lost the parrot and burned Mrs. Easton's rug. It was most annoying."
"Yes, luckily I hadn't got any suitable fur rugs," John chuckled. "So they actually burnt Mrs. Easton's?"
"Yes, and—er—she was so much upset," George went on, "that she's—well—the fact is, they can't come back, John, because she's let their room."
"How much do you owe her?" John demanded.
"Oh, very little. I think only from last September. Well, you see, Eleanor was out of an engagement all the summer and had a wretched salary at the Parthenon while she was understudying—these actress-managers are awful harpies—do you know Janet Bond?"
"Yes, I'm writing a tragedy for her now."
"Make her pay, old boy, make her pay. That's my advice. And I know the business side of the profession. But to come back to Mrs. Easton—I was really very angry with her, but you see, I've got my own room here and it's uncommonly difficult to find a private room in a boarding-house, so I thought we'd stay on here till Eleanor's tour was over. She intends to save three pounds a week, and if I have a little luck over the sticks this winter, we shall be quite straight with Mrs. Easton, and then the children will be able to come back in the New Year."
"How much do you owe her?" John demanded for the second time.
"Oh, I think it's about twenty pounds—it may be a little more."
John knew how much the little more always was in George's calculations, and rang the bell, which fetched his brother out of the armchair almost in a bound.