Abruptly recalled from the realms of fiction writing I looked up a little dazed. 'Lamb or 'am,' I repeated dully, 'lamorram? Er—ram, I think, please, Elizabeth.'
Having thus disposed of my domestic obligations for the day, I returned to my writing. I was annoyed therefore to see the other end of Elizabeth travel round the doorway and sidle into the room. Her pretext for entering—that of dusting the roll-top desk with her apron—was a little thin, for she has not the slightest objection to dust. I rather think it cheers her up to see it about the place. Obviously she had come in to make conversation. I laid down my pen with a sigh.
'I yeerd from my young man this morning,' she began. A chill foreboding swept over me. (I will explain why in a minute.)
'Do you mean the boiler one?' I asked.
[Illustration: 'Do you mean the boiler one?' I asked.]
''Im wot belongs to the Amalgamated Serciety of Boilermakers,' she corrected with dignity. 'Well, they've moved 'is 'eadquarters from London to Manchester.'
There was a tense silence, broken only by Elizabeth's hard breathing on a brass paper-weight ere she polished it with her sleeve.
'If 'e goes to Manchester, there I goes,' she went on; 'I suppose I'd quite easy get a situation there?'