Matt suddenly felt faint and dizzy. Raising his eyes, he perceived that the landlady had not gone, that she was effervescing with unuttered speech.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Lipchild,” he said, “I thought that your rent would have been in this letter.”
The lank, elderly woman looked grieved.
“Lor’ bless you, sir,” said she, “I’m not worryin’ about the rent. Don’t I know an honest face when I see it? Us landladies are always made out so bad. We’re always stealin’ the lodgers’ provisions and what not, and we can’t speak proper. I should like to see a book written on the other side. Why, last year I had an old maid in this very room—she took her meals here, and said I wasn’t to charge for attendance because she’d be always out; but bless me if the bell didn’t go tinkely-tinkely every minute, like an alarm-clock gone wrong in its inside. Believe me, Mr. Strang, it isn’t the lodgers as is always taken in. I’ve often wished my son was a writer instead of an artist; I’d get him to write the book.”
“Your son is an artist?” said Matt, in astonishment.
“Yes, Mr. Strang, though not near so clever as you. I could show you some of his work if you didn’t mind.”
“Oh, I should like to see it,” said Matt, half amused at this unexpected interlude, though his temples throbbed with a shooting pain.
“Would you mind comin’ down into the parlor, sir?”
“With pleasure,” said Matt.
He followed his landlady down the narrow stairs into the musty little room, resplendent with oleographs and a gilt mirror and two fruit-shades.