Cecilia begged to know what apartments he could spare for her.
“Take you up stairs,” cried he, “shew you a place for a queen.”
He then led her up stairs, and took her to a room entirely dark, and so close for want of air that she could hardly breathe in it. She retreated to the landing-place till he had opened the shutters, and then saw an apartment the most forlorn she had ever beheld, containing no other furniture than a ragged stuff bed, two worn-out rush-bottomed chairs, an old wooden box, and a bit of broken glass which was fastened to the wall by two bent nails.
“See here, my little chick,” cried he, “everything ready! and a box for your gimcracks into the bargain.”
“You don't mean this place for me, Sir!” cried Cecilia, staring.
“Do, do;” cried he, “a deal nicer by and by. Only wants a little furbishing; soon put to rights. Never sweep a room out of use; only wears out brooms for nothing.”
“But, Sir, can I not have an apartment on the first floor?”
“No, no, something else to do with it; belongs to the club; secrets in all things! Make this do well enough. Come again next week; wear quite a new face. Nothing wanting but a table; pick you up one at a broker's.”
“But I am obliged, Sir, to leave Mr Harrel's house directly.”
“Well, well, make shift without a table at first; no great matter if you ha'n't one at all, nothing particular to do with it. Want another blanket, though. Know where to get one; a very good broker hard by. Understand how to deal with him! A close dog, but warm.”