“My mother is not well. We must have a room, with a fire, for her, at once. And not too high up!” said Prima, breathlessly, not waiting to mop her wet face and hair.
Felina smiled more widely; jingled her keys and studied the red rosette of a slipper she put forward for that purpose.
“I have rooms—certainly.”
“Let us see them—please! This lady must not stand here in her wet clothes!” cried all in one voice.
“Here” was a lofty passage whose stone floor was swept by draughts of damp air.
“She will catch her death of cold!” subjoined Prima, frantic.
Felina put out another slipper; assured herself that the rosette was upon it, also. “I have rooms. One large. Two small. On third floor.”
I will not prolong the scene. We stood where we were, in opposition to our entreaties to be allowed to enter the salle, while the negotiation was pending, until we agreed to take her three rooms, unseen, at her prices. Extortionate we knew them to be and said as much to Felina’s face, eliciting a tigerish expansion of the thin lips, and—“As Mesdames like. I have said I have three rooms. One large. Two small.”
Up one hundred (counted) stone stairs we trudged, to a barn of a room, the sea breaking and the winds screaming against the outer walls. There we learned that neither fire nor hot supper was to be our portion that night, and that for meals served in bed-chambers an extra sum must be paid.
“But you said we could not have supper down-stairs at this hour! We have had no dinner. To say nothing of being wet to the skin. Cannot you send up a bowl of hot soup?”