"What are your terms?" she asked, in a dull voice, having entirely made up her mind not to stay with this hateful woman in this hateful house. But she wished to parley and give herself time to rest, for she felt strangely ill. The woman named a sum ridiculously high.
"I could not afford to pay that," she answered; and Nurse Selton regarded her coldly.
"That is not much for a lady of your sort—first, I presume? You won't get lower terms anywhere else. Won't the gentleman help you?"
When Poppy realised the meaning of this question, the best she could do was to bite her lips and avert her eyes from the odious woman, who discontentedly continued:
"Well—I'll make it thirty shillings a week until, and two pounds a week after. Two guineas for the little affair—and if you want a doctor, a guinea extra."
"I don't think I care to stay," said the girl in a low voice. "You said in your advertisement that your house was near Westminster Abbey, but I see that it is nothing of the kind."
"Well, you make a great mistake," said the nurse perkily. "I'll show you a room where you can see the Abbey as plain as the nose on my face. Follow me."
And Poppy followed again, through the hall that smelled of frying herrings and soapsuds, up a narrow, oil-clothed staircase; across two landings; higher and higher, darker and darker, stumbling and kicking the narrow steps, to the top landing of all. There were three doors upon it, and one of them Mrs. Selton opened and drove forward to light a gas-jet. It smelled close and dank, but yet was inoffensively plain and simple—the ordinary bedroom furniture with no adornments of any kind. Straight facing the door was a little casement-window, with a wide ledge to lean upon; this the nurse approached and threw open.
"There you are," said she stormily; and Poppy looked forth, and looked again, and stayed looking, for it was well worth having "clomb the deadly stair" to see. There was the grey old spired pile, lying lovely against the pale evening light.
"I will stay," she said simply.