“Yes, brother, I do; the first door on the left.”
“Very well; then I wish you a good-night.”
“Good-night, brother,” replied Nicholas, ascending the stairs as John Forster entered his room.
Nicholas arrived at the head of the stairs; but his brain was not very clear. He muttered to himself “I think I’m right—yes, I’m right—the first door—to the right—yes—that’s it,” and instead of the room to the left, where Newton was, he walked into the one to the right, which appertained to the housekeeper, Mrs Smith.
The old lady was fast asleep. Nicholas threw off his clothes, put out his candle, and stepped into bed without waking the old lady, whom he supposed to be his son, and in a few minutes they snored in concert.
The morning dawned. The watchmen (London nightingales) ceased their notes and retired to their beds. The chimney-sweeps (larks of the metropolis) raised their shrill cry as they paced along with chattering teeth. House-maids and kitchen-maids presented their back views to the early passengers, as they washed off the accumulation of the previous day from the steps of the front door. “Milk below,” (certainly much below “proof”), was answered by the assent of the busy cooks, when a knock at the door of Mrs Smith’s room from the red knuckles of the housemaid, awoke her to a sense of her equivocal situation.
At her first discovery that a man was in her bed, she uttered a scream of horror, throwing herself upon her knees, and extending her hands before her in her amazement. The scream awoke Nicholas, who, astonished at the sight, and his modesty equally outraged, also threw himself in the same posture, facing her, and recoiling. Each looked aghast at each: each considered the other as the lawless invader; but before a word of explanation could pass between them, their countenances changed from horror to surprise, from surprise to anxiety and doubt.
“Why!” screamed the housekeeper, losing her breath with astonishment.
“It is!” cried Nicholas, retreating further.
“Yes—yes—it is—my dear Nicholas!”