“What reason does he give?” said Richard, sharply.
“Oh!” said the woman, “he says that it has got about that we keep a mad woman in the house without having a license; and the neighbours talk, and there will be a summons about it some time or another. He hates to go out, he says—just as if that matters. Don’t you think it might be managed after all? I don’t want to part with her.”
“Yes—no,” said Richard Pellet, correcting himself. “You’ve thrown up a good thing, and now I shall make another arrangement.”
“Well,” said the woman, in surly tones, “I was obliged to write—he made me. But you’ve no call to complain; she’s been here now best part of nine years, and always well taken care of, and at a lower rate than you would have paid at a private asylum. You ought to have let me have the child as well. No one could have kept her closer.”
“What?” said Richard, harshly.
“Well, that was only once; and I took precious good care that she did not play me such a trick a second time. She wasn’t away long, though,” said the woman, laughing.
“There! send her down,” said Richard Pellet, impatiently.
“I don’t mind telling you, now,” said the woman, not heeding the remark, “she’s very little trouble; sits and works all day long without speaking.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Richard Pellet; “now that there’s no more money to be made by contrary statements, you can be honest.”
“Well,” said the woman, “other people may find out things for themselves. Nobody taught me.”