“What a strange girl she is!” thought Edith that night as she went to bed.
And Myra said to herself again calmly and thoughtfully: “Proposed for me. Perhaps Edie is right. But how strange!”
Chapter Eight.
Stratton’s Decision.
“Yes, sir, it’s done,” said Mrs Brade, looking sadly in at the doorway on the left side of the fire; “and I hope it will turn out all right, but my experience of pipes is that they always busties in the winter, and drowns all your neighbours out on the next floor.”
“Well, I hope this will be an exception,” said Stratton, laughing.
“I hope so, too, sir, but it’s no laughing matter, and for my part—though, of course, gentlemen have a right to do as they like—I think there is nothing like a big, flat, zinc bath painted oak out, and white in, set on a piece of oilcloth in a gentleman’s bedroom. Then you’ve your big sponge, and a can of water. No trouble about them getting out of order.”
“But the trouble, Mrs Brade,” said Stratton. “No filling; no anything.”