“But haven’t you got anything?” His face fell.
“Nothing fit to offer,” said the landlady.
“But I’m hungry—and I’ve got to wait here.”
“You’re not staying for the night?” she queried.
“I may,” he said, to encourage her to produce some food.
“Oh, but we haven’t a room empty.”
He reddened. Was it possible she recognized the hobnailed lad of yore, refused to serve him or to allow him up her aristocratic stairs?
“You haven’t a room empty?” he repeated incredulously.
“There’s a poky garret,” she said, “and another man would have to go through it to his bedroom, and he goes to bed very late and gets up very early. But even our best rooms are stuffy and our corridors are that dingy people are always tumbling against the brooms the maids leave about; when they’re not tumbling down the stairs. Look how steep they are! The whole house is badly built—it was never meant for an hotel—and the service is disgraceful.”
Will, overwhelmed, stammered out deprecation of her abuse. The inn was most picturesque, he urged, and it was not the fault of the house if the coach was late; as for himself a crust of bread and cheese would suffice to stay his pangs.