“Feard so, sir,” said Sam, in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t like her looks at all. But I can’t stop, sir; the missus ’ll be here, and I hope she’ll know of a place as suits.”
The next moment, Sam Jenkles was gone, and Richard sat looking round at the bright candlesticks and saucepan-lids, hardly able to realise the fact that but a day or two before he was the master of Penreife, for what had taken place seemed to be back years ago.
His musings were interrupted by the entry of Mrs Jenkles, who stood curtseying and smoothing her apron.
“Is she better?” said Richard, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, she’s quite well again now,” said Mrs Jenkles. “She’s weak, sir—rather delicate health; and Sam—that is my husband—said you wanted apartments, sir.”
“And that you would be able to find me some,” said Richard, smiling.
“I don’t think we’ve anything good enough about here, sir, for a gentleman like you.”
“For a poor man like me, you mean. Now look here, Mrs—Mrs—”
“Jenkles, sir.”
“Mrs Jenkles. I can afford to pay six or seven shillings a-week, that is all.”