"I admit they don't fit as well as your stockings, but—"
"Norval."
"Madam?"
"Behave yourself."
"Very good, madam. By the way, what about my wages?"
"What do you suggest? I shan't object to anything reasonable."
"No? Well, I was getting eleven-three a yar—day in my last place, and all found—especially all."
"'All found''s rather a dangerous phrase."
"Not at all. It only means washing and beer and the English papers, when you've done with them, and meat on Sundays. A smile, too, when I'm tired, and a word of thanks after seventy miles in the rain with a head wind."
"It might cover a multitude of sins, Norval."