Miss Rumble made an alarmed courtesy.
"'Gad, I forgot how cold this d——d town is. I say, you'll keep a fire in my bed-room, please; lay on enough to carry me through the night, do you mind?"
"Yes, sir."
"And poke this fire up, and put some more wood, or coal, on it; I don't expect to be ever warm again—in this world, eh?—ha, ha, ha! I remember our gardener, when we were boys, telling me a story of a preacher in a hard frost, telling his congregation that hell was a terribly cold place, lest if he described what good fires they kept there they'd all have been wishing to get into it. Did you ever know any one, ma'am, of my name, Dingwell, before, eh? Where were you born?"
"London, sir, please."
"Ho! Canterbury was our place; we were great people, the Dingwells, there once. My father failed, though—fortune of war—and I've seen all the world since; 'gad, I've met with queer people, ma'am, and one of those chances brings me here now. If I had not met the oddest fish I ever set my eyes on, in the most out-o'-the-way-place on earth, I should not have had the happiness of occupying this charming apartment at this moment, or of making your acquaintance, or that of your plump little Cupid and Psyche, down stairs. London, I suppose, is pretty much what it always was, where any fellow with plenty of money may have plenty of fun. Lots of sin in London, ma'am, eh? Not quite so good as Vienna. But the needs and pleasures of all men, according to their degree, are wonderfully provided for; wherever money is there is a market—for the cabman's copper and the guinea of the gentleman he drives—everything for money, ma'am—bouquets, and smiles, and coffins, wooden or leaden, according to your relative fastidiousness. But things change very fast, ma'am. Look at this map; I should not know the town—a wilderness, egad! and no one to tell you where fun is to be found."
She gazed, rather frightened, at this leering, giggling old man, who stood with his shoulders against the chimney-piece, and his hands tumbling over his shillings in his pockets, and his sinister and weary face ever so little flushed with his sherry and his talk.
"Well, if you can give a poor devil a wrinkle of any sort—hey?—it will be a charity; but, egad! I'm as sleepy as the Homilies," and he yawned direfully. "Do, like an angel, go and see to my room, I can scarcely keep my eyes open."
From the next room she heard him hi-yeawing in long-drawn yawns, and talking in snatches to himself over the fire, and when she came back he took the candle and said,—
"Beaten, ma'am, fairly beaten to-night. Not quite what I was, though I'm good for something still; but an old fellow can't get on without his sleep."