“Oh,” said the housekeeper, speaking with her lips very close together, but without drawing back. “Then why have you both come here? This is not a broker’s.”
“No, ma’am, of course not,” said Arthur, with a little laugh.
“I was not speaking to you, sir,” said the housekeeper, turning upon him suddenly. “Have the goodness to keep your place.”
“Certainly, ma’am. Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“Now, Mr Roach; what do you want here?”
“Want here, ma’am?” stammered the butler; “want here? Why, I can’t go to my broker without my warrants.”
The housekeeper’s pale face looked more pinched than ever as she gazed searchingly at the other, who looked completely taken aback; and then she darted a sharp glance at Arthur, who evidently expected it and did not look, but busied himself in bringing a little bit of vanity well into sight, the said piece of vanity taking the shape of a couple of bronze fox-head cuff studs, which he drew beyond the sleeves of his coat.
“You can go down into your pantry and get what you require,” said the housekeeper, coldly, and she made way for the butler to enter. Arthur was about to follow. “No,” she said sharply, “you can wait.”
“Wait—here, ma’am?”
“Yes,” said the housekeeper, decisively, and she made as if to shut the door. “Or, no; you can sit down inside.”