“Yes, sir; and Mr Paul, who is my late husband’s half-brother, has the other front parlour, which we sometimes share with him when he is in a good temper. When he isn’t, my daughter and I—this is my daughter, sir—sit in the—”
“Oh, mamma, hush!” exclaimed the younger lady, acknowledging Geoffrey’s bow.
“Well, my dear, it’s the simple truth,” said mamma. “I hope you don’t object to the smell of black silk being ironed, sir?”
“Oh, dear, no,” said Geoffrey, smiling.
“It’s the being sponged over with beer first,” continued the little woman. “It makes it so stiff, and when it’s done it looks almost as good as new.”
“But, mamma,” remonstrated the younger lady.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Quite superior people turn their black silks, and have them re-made over and over again. There really is no cheaper wear than a good black silk.”
“But about the apartments,” said Geoffrey, to the younger lady’s great relief.
“Oh! yes; of course. To be sure,” continued the little lady. “I let the bedchambers over the rooms, sir. One to each.”
“Exactly,” said Geoffrey, who was much amused at the simplicity of the elder lady, and the assumption of gentility on the part of the younger; “but do I understand you to say that the apartments are engaged?”