“And what might be his malady, if I may be so bold, ma’am?” the landlord asked.
“’Tis an incurable disease,” the lady said.
“And what might they call it, ma’am,” said the soft Gamaliel. His voice had the most persuasive humility.
Again the telltale blush showed beneath the mask.
“I—I do not know,” the woman faltered.
The landlord was much too astute to pursue the theme. He apologised for the poverty of the chamber, but it was the best he could place at their disposal. It was a lonesome inn, they must know, not in the least designed for the honour of gentry. But he would not have them conclude for the world—Master Gamaliel coughed in a most deprecatory manner—that, country person as he might be, he was ignorant of what was the due of people of quality. Assuring them of his humble duty and of his desire to promote their comfort in every way, he hoped they had blankets enough, and if they had not, would they kindly inform Cicely the serving-maid? Thereon he gave them “Good-night,” and hobbled downstairs, so deep in his thoughts that he collided with a warming-pan filled with hot brands that was being carried upstairs by the assiduous Cicely. The landlord gave a howl of pain as it shrivelled the back of his hand.
“Should mind where ye be goin’ then,” said the servant-maid, with grim satisfaction.
“You clumsy jade!” roared her master; “you insolent baggage!”
Cicely tossed her head, and passed up the stairs well satisfied.
“Wish it had been his eyes, the slimy old twöad,” she muttered under her breath piously.