"Regarding coals, Miss Bunting," proceeded Mrs. Lawrence thoughtfully, "I told Miss Quentin that the charge would be sixpence per scuttle." (This was in pre-war times, it must be remembered, and the scuttles were of painfully meagre proportions.) "It might be as well to put that large coal-box in her room—you know the one I mean—and make the charge eightpence."
The box in question was certainly of imposing exterior proportions, but its tin lining was of a quite different domestic period and made no pretensions as to fitting. It lay loosely inside its sham mahogany casing like the shrivelled kernel of a nut in its shell.
"The big coal-scuttle really doesn't hold twopenny-worth more coal than the others," observed Miss Bunting tentatively.
A dull flush mounted to Mrs. Lawrence's cheek. She liked the prospect of screwing an extra twopence out of one of her boarders, but she hated having the fact so clearly pointed out to her. There were times when she found Miss Bunting's conscientiousness something of a trial.
"It's a much larger box," she protested sharply.
"Yes. I know it is—outside. But the lining only holds two more knobs than the sixpenny ones."
Mrs. Lawrence frowned.
"Do I understand that you—you actually measured the amount it contains?" she asked, with bitterness.
"Yes," retorted Miss Bunting valiantly. "And compared it with the others. It was when you told me to put the eightpenny scuttle in Miss Jenkins' room. She complained at once."
"Then you exceeded your duties, Miss Bunting. You should have referred
Miss Jenkins to me."