“But I never ordered these!” Catherine protested.
Mr. Hackworth shrugged his shoulders.
“You’ve ’ad ’em, anyway, miss. The nurse uster come in of a morning and say: Mr. Hackworth, I want the Moosical Times for this month——”
“Yes, I know about that: I did order that——”
“Well, an’ then the nurse’d say afterwards: I want them books on this list, an’ she giv’ me a bit o’ piper with ’em written down on.... Put ’em all down on the sime acahnt? I uster arst, an’ she uster sy: Yes, you’d better....”
Catherine was more angry over this than over anything else.
At home in the kitchen she discovered Florrie reading one of these paper-backed novels.
“Where did this come from?” she enquired sternly.
“Out of the bottom cupboard,” replied Florrie, conscious of innocence; “there’s piles of ’em there. The nurse left ’em.”
Sure enough the bottom cupboard was littered with them. Their titles ran the entire gamut both of chromatic biliousness and female nomenclature. Catherine stirred them with her foot as if they had been carrion.