Miss Nettleship hesitated, her pleasant, anxious-looking face much discomposed.
“Really I oughtn’t to say anything about it to you, but you do understand how it is, dear—I feel the responsibility of having you here, and your auntie being such a friend of mine and everything, I feel I can’t let it go on and not say anything.”
“I’ve written to Aunt Beryl all about Mr. Margoliouth, you know,” said Lydia quickly.
She felt the announcement to be a trump card, and was surprised that Miss Nettleship’s harassed expression did not relax.
“I was sure you would, dear—it isn’t that. You see the fact is, though I oughtn’t to mention it but I know you can be trusted never to pass it on,—the fact is that Mr. Margoliouth, as he calls himself, isn’t altogether sound, and I don’t know that I shan’t have to ask him to leave.”
“Why?” cried Lydia, astonished.
But Miss Nettleship had her own methods of imparting information, and was not to be hustled out of them.
“Of course you know how it is in a place like this—one has to be very particular, and I’ve always asked for references and everything, and there’s never been any trouble except just once, right at the start. That was with foreigners, too, a pair of Germans, and called themselves brother and sister. However, that’s nothing to do with you, dear, and I had to send them packing very quickly—in fact, the minute I had any doubts at all. It’s the ruin of a place like this ever to let it get a name, as you can imagine, and the fright I got then made me more particular than ever. This fellow Margoliouth gave me a City reference, and another a clergyman somewhere up in Yorkshire, and paid his first week in advance. And since then it’s just been one put off after another.”
“But how—what do you mean, Miss Nettleship?”
“He’s not paying his way,” said the manageress, fixing her brown eyes compassionately upon Lydia’s face.