“No, my dear—me—it was me,” said Tim, who well enough knew that the fire had been made up by Mrs Ruggles herself: but he was a terrible liar.
“Then you ought to have known better.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Tim, humbly, glad to have averted the current of his lady’s wrath.
“Are those trousers nearly done?” said Mrs Ruggles.
“Very nearly, my dear,” replied Tim, throwing his iron duster, and some more scraps over the spot where lay the doll.
“Because you have to go to Pellet’s, mind, this afternoon.”
“Thinking about ’em when you was on the stairs, my dear,” said Tim, and this time he spoke the truth.