“You can send her up, whoever she is,” said Mr. Somerville.
A moment afterwards Peg entered the apartment.
John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for charity. So many years had passed since he had met with this woman, that she had passed out of his remembrance.
“Do you wish to see me about anything?” he asked, indifferently. “If so, you must be quick, for I am just going out.”
“You don't seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville,” said Peg, fixing her keen black eyes upon his face.
“I can't say I do,” he replied, carelessly. “Perhaps you used to wash for me once.”
“I am not in the habit of acting as laundress,” said the woman, proudly. It is worth noticing that she was not above passing spurious coin, and doing other things which are stamped as disreputable by the laws of the land, but her pride revolted at the imputation that she was a washer-woman.
“In that case,” said Somerville, carelessly, “you will have to tell me who you are, for it is out of my power to conjecture.”
“Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection,” said Peg, composedly.
“Ida!” repeated John Somerville, changing color, and gazing now with attention at the woman's features.