"Take up that strip of carpet," commanded Mr Leavesley's aunt, when the duster and the broom returned in the hands of the animal. "Whew! Throw it outside the door and beat it in the back garden, if you have such a thing—burn it if you haven't. Give me the duster. Now sweep the floor, whilst I do these shelves; Frank, put those books in a heap. Whew! does no one ever clean this place? Ha! what are you doing sweeping under the couch? Pull out that couch. Mercy!!!"
Under the couch there was a heap of miscellaneous things—empty cigarette tins, an empty beer bottle, an empty whisky bottle, half a pack of cards, a dress tie, a glove, "The Three Musketeers," and an old waistcoat—and dust, mounds of dust.
Miss Hancock looked at this. Like the coster who looked back along the City road to see the way strewn with cabbages, lettuces, and onions which had leaked from his faulty barrow, language was quite inadequate to express her feelings.
"Go, get a dust-pan," she said at last, "and a basket. Be quick about it. Mercy!!!"
By the time the place was in order, Belinda, to Leavesley's astonishment, had become transformed from a sulky-looking slattern to a semi-respectable-looking servant girl.
"That will do," said Miss Hancock in a magisterial voice, when the last consignment of rubbish had been removed. "Now, you can go."
As the boar sharpens its tusks against a tree preparatory to using them to carve human flesh, so had Miss Hancock sharpened the tusks of her temper upon Belinda.
"No thanks, I don't want any tea," she said, replying to Leavesley's invitation. "I've come to ask you for an explanation."
"What of?"