She passed from the bedroom to the sitting-room; here was the same vulgar order, the same musty smell. The table was laid for dinner.
Mutimer read his wife’s countenance furtively. He could not discover how the abode impressed her, and he put no question. When he returned from the bedroom she was sitting before the fire, pensive.
‘You’re hungry, I expect?’ he said.
Her appetite was far from keen, but in order not to appear discontented she replied that she would be glad of dinner.
The servant, her hands and face half washed, presently appeared with a tray on which were some mutton-chops, potatoes, and a cabbage. Adela did her best to eat, but the chops were ill-cooked, the vegetables poor in quality. There followed a rice-pudding; it was nearly cold; coagulated masses of rice appeared beneath yellowish water. Mutimer made no remark about the food till the table was cleared. Then he said:
‘They’ll have to do better than that. The first day, of course—You’ll have a talk with the landlady whilst I’m out to-night. Just let her see that you won’t be content with anything; you have to talk plainly to these people.’
‘Yes, I’ll speak about it,’ Adela replied.
‘They made a trouble at first about waiting on us,’ Mutimer pursued. ‘But I didn’t see how we could get our own meals very well. You can’t cook, can you?’
He smiled, and seemed half ashamed to ask the question.
‘Oh yes; I can cook ordinary things,’ Adela said. ‘But—we haven’t a kitchen, have we?’