“Wat, sir?” she said.
“Does Mr. Francis Morley live here?” I asked, raising my voice. “Is he in?”
The maid's face was as wooden as the door-post. Her mouth, already open, opened still wider and she continued to stare. A step sounded in the dark hall behind her and another voice said, sharply:
“'Oo is it, 'Arriet? And w'at does 'e want?”
The maid grinned. “'E wants to see MISTER Morley, ma'am,” she said, with a giggle.
She was pushed aside and a red-faced woman, with thin lips and scowl, took her place.
“'OO do you want to see?” she demanded.
“Francis Morley. Does he live here?”
“'OO?”
“Francis Morley.” My answer was sharp enough this time. I began to think I had invaded a colony of imbeciles—or owls; their conversation seemed limited to “oos.”