But Mrs. Lightfoot spoke very good-humouredly.
“I can cook simple things,” said Jean, “and I know some nice Scotch breakfast dishes.”
“I don’t want you to go a-spoiling my lodgers! Plain and good—that’s my motter. Eggs and bacon week-days, an’ midget sausages on Sunday for a treat. My gentlemen pays for ‘bed and breakfast,’ and though it’s near double what it was afore the war, yet it needs a good bit more contriving than it did then, I can tell you. As to Miss Cheale, well, she goes on another plan. I just buys what she wants. She makes a tidy bit of money out of them Russians she works for. Besides, as you maybe ’ave ’eard, she was left a little fortune by that poor poisoned soul!”
At six-thirty there came the sound of the big front door opening. Then it was shut slowly, carefully.
“That’s Mr. Robins,” remarked Mrs. Lightfoot; “’e’s a very careful gentleman. Halways the first to come in, for the reason he works near ’ere at the British Museum. A proper, quiet sort o’ man, though they do say ’e was a regular devil in the war! But there! ’E’s settled down peaceful nicely now. ’E’s got my big front drawing room, and beautiful ’e’s made it with some things ’is ma left ’im when she died.”
Something like a quarter of an hour went by, and then again there came the sound of the front door opening. This time it was banged to.
“Mr. Goodbody,” said the housekeeper. “A merry, cheerful little gentleman, as lives up to ’is name. Going to be married, so we sha’n’t keep ’im long. I’ll miss ’im when ’e goes—not that I exactly envy ’is missis, mind you, but still it’s nice to be always greeted with a laugh and a joke.”
“That’s Miss Cheale,” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, as a church clock near by struck seven. “Sometimes she works even later than this. ’Er arrival is the signal for me to get busy. I got ’er a nice chop to-day. She going to ’ave fried potatoes with it—fried potatoes and brussels sprouts—likewise a meringue. Not one of those bought meringues—all glue and a lick of cream. But a meringue I’ve got to fill chock-full of whipped cream. Miss Cheale knows what she likes, and, unlike some folks, she’s willing to pay for it.”
As she spoke she got up, and began moving about, and when Jean offered to help her she shook her head.
“Let be, let be,” she exclaimed; “’nother night I may let you try your ’and at Miss Cheale’s supper, but to-night I’d better do it, for I knows what she likes, and exactly ’ow she likes it. But I’ll tell you what I will let you do! I’ll let you carry up the tray as far as the landing. We must take the risk of ’er seeing you—morbid, ain’t it, ’er dislike of seeing people?”