Mary hung down her head. But Rachel pressed her so kindly to speak, that her heart opened, and with many a hesitating pause, and many a qualifying comment, Mary Jones related to her kind-hearted listener a little story, which, lest the reader should not prove so indulgent, or so patient as Rachel Gray, we will relate in language plainer and more brief.
CHAPTER XII.
Time had worn on: nine months in all had passed away since the opening of the Teapot.
We must be quite frank: Mr. Jones had not always made the one pound ten a week dear profit; and of course this affected all his calculations: the ten per cent for increase of gain included. There had been weeks when he had not realized more than one pound, others when he made ten shillings, ay and there had been weeks when all he could do—if he did do so—was to make both ends meet. It was odd; but it was so. Mr. Jones was at first much startled; but, he soon learned to reconcile himself to it.
"It stands to reason," he philosophically observed to Mary, "it's business, you see, it's business." The words explained all.
Another drawback was that the front room which was worth five shillings a week, as his landlord had proved to Mr. Jones in their very first conversation, and for which Mr. Jones had therefore allowed—on the faith of his landlord's word—thirteen pounds a year in his accounts— never let at all. This was the first intimation Mr. Jones received of the practical business truth, that it is necessary to allow for losses.
He had almost given up all thoughts of letting this unfortunate room, and indeed the bill had had time to turn shabby and yellow in the shop window, when one morning a young man entered the shop and in a cool deliberate tone said: "Room to let?"
"Yes, Sir," replied Jones rather impressed by his brief manner.
"Back or front?"
"Front, Sir, front. Capital room, Sir!"