“A dozen, if you like, ma’am; but shall we look at the rooms?”
Mrs. Jacobs assented, and they made their way upstairs, George keeping in front. On the first-floor he saw a pair of lady’s shoes on a mat outside the door, and guessed to whom they belonged.
“Are these the rooms?” he said, laying his hand upon the door-handle.
“No, sir, no, they are Mrs. Roberts’; next floor, please, sir.”
“Mrs. Roberts?—I suppose the very handsome young lady I saw come into the house. No offence, ma’am; but a man’s bound to be careful where he brings his wife. I suppose she’s all right.”
“Lord, yes, poor dear!” answered Mrs. Jacobs, in indignation; “why, they came here straight from St. Jude’s, Battersea, the day they were married; a runaway match, I fancy.”
“That’s all right; she looked charming. I hope her husband is worthy of her,” remarked George, as he gazed round Mrs. Jacobs’ rooms.
“Well, as to that, he’s handsome enough, for them as likes those black men; but I don’t like people as only comes to visit their lawful wives about twice a month. But,” suddenly checking herself, “it isn’t any affair of mine.”
“No, indeed, very reprehensible: I am, as a married man, entirely of your mind. These are charming rooms, ma’am, charming. I shall certainly take them if my wife approves; I will let you know by to-morrow’s post—Jacobs, yes, I have it down. Good evening, ma’am,” and he was gone.
Instead of going out that evening as he had intended, George sat in the smoking-room of his hotel and thought. He also wrote a letter which he addressed to Mrs. Bellamy.