“Is your wife alive, Tom?” I said, interrupting him.
“I hope so, ma’am.”
“You hope so! Don’t you know?”
“No, ma’am—that’s the sad part of the story. That’s what I’m coming to. When we left the casual ward the next day——”
* * * * *
No. 17 going—given you a cheque for his bill. Let me see it. That’s a good bank, but I don’t think I ought to take a cheque. But if I say I won’t, it’s like suspecting the gentleman of being a swindler. His luggage is very respectable. Dear me, I wish Harry was here. Something’s sure to crop up just because he’s gone down for two days to see his mother. It’s only ten pounds odd. I suppose I’d better take it. All right; receipt the bill. Oh, dear, I hope it’s all right. Harry will think me so stupid if it isn’t. I shall have that cheque on my mind, night and day, till it’s paid. I don’t think I’ll take it. Susan, Susan, bring that bill back. What! you’ve given it to the gentleman? He’s got his bill receipted? Dear, dear, I don’t think I can refuse now. Well, I hope it will be all right.
CHAPTER XII.
TOM DEXTER’S WIFE.
The worst of anybody who is not a regular author or authoress trying to write out incidents of their life, or things that they know about which they think will be interesting, is that there is always some interruption or other just as one is getting to the point.
When I was writing my “Memoirs” as a servant, of course, it was dreadful, for anybody who knows anything about it knows how little time a servant gets to herself, and when she does have a quiet half-hour to sit still in the kitchen, writing is out of the question, because there is no quiet if you are with other servants; and if you are by yourself there is sure to be plenty for you to do.
How I ever managed to get those “Memoirs” done at all will always be a mystery to me; and the more I look back on the difficulties I had to encounter, the more wonderful it seems.