Turning sharply, it was to see Mrs Brade at her doorway, beckoning to him.
“Good-morning. You wish to speak to me?”
“Yes, sir, if you would not mind stepping inside, sir. I’m all alone, except my husband, sir.”
Guest stepped into the little room, half parlour, half kitchen, of the porter’s lodge, and Mrs Brade carefully wiped a highly polished, well beeswaxed chair with her apron and set it by the fire.
“No, no, not there,” said Guest hastily. “I’m hot enough already.”
“Of course, sir,” said the woman, changing the position; “and you’ve been walking, sir. One oughtn’t to have a fire on a day like this; only you see, sir, one must cook and do everything here when one only has one room.”
“Of course, Mrs Brade; but it is quite a little palace of cleanliness.”
“Which it’s very good of you to say so, sir,” said Mrs Brade, with an ill-used air, “and it would be if it wasn’t for my husband. He’s one of the best of men, sir, but that untidy in his habits. What with one boot here, and another boot there, and tobacco ashes all over the place, he nearly worries my life out.”
A low, peculiar sound came from an ajar door, sounding like a remonstrant growl from the gentleman in question, whereupon Mrs Brade went and shut the door, and drew an old moreen curtain across the opening.
“He do breathe a little hard in his sleep, sir,” she said apologetically.