"What a pity for a man to make such ugly noises when he's asleep!" she remarked to her neighbour. "I wish some one would wake him up. He's disturbing the whole room."
Mr. Grant opened one eye, then the other. Finally he sat up.
"Madam," he shouted, as she raised her trumpet to her ear, "you forget that I am not like you—deaf!"
"I don't care whether you are or not," she replied. "I'm glad I woke you up. Bed's the place for you."
"A coffin's the place for you," Mr. Grant muttered under his breath. "How are you going to get away from here, ma'am?" he continued, raising his tone. "I hear your rooms are let from to-morrow."
"I sha'n't ask you for a place in your car," she answered. "Very likely I sha'n't go. They can't turn me out."
"I don't think they'll miss the opportunity," her interlocutor retorted, with a sardonic smile.
She laid her speaking trumpet in her lap.
"I sha'n't listen to you any more," she declared. "You're a rude old man. If it interests any one else to know what will become of me, I have relatives in Bristol who will be only too glad for me to pay them a visit."
"They'll be gladder to get rid of her," Mr. Grant observed, looking around for sympathy.