“Yes.”
“Well... A shabby old man, but with signs of race. He would hint at troubles, and she would sort of lure him on to tell her his history—”
“Yes?”
“How stupid you are! Then of course you must work it out. He might be a miser, or an uncle from China—or the husband of someone who had married again. Is anyone married again?”
“No.”
“Oh, well then, she won’t meet him! ... What about a fire? No! you had a fire in the last book. Or a flood. Is there a river anywhere handy that could flood them out?”
“There is not.”
“Don’t be so blighting. I’m trying to help. Could there be a lost will? It’s banal, I know, but what can you do? Everyone writes novels, and there isn’t a plot left. Even leprosy is overdone. Now if you’d bring in a few chapters about the parlourmaid I’d write them for you. That reminds me! I was forgetting to ask you something, and it’s most important. Parsons says there are two handkerchiefs short from the laundry, and the man is coming for the money, and what will I say. Martin! what do I say? What does one say when the laundry is short? Should I be angry? How angry? I don’t care a dump about the old things, but I’ll pretend I do. Shall I tell him you’ve a cold, and have only a dozen and can’t do without them? Ought I to make him leave his own? Just give me a hint, and I’ll work it out. Could I demand compensation? Happy thought! Are they insured?”
Martin laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Domesticities again. I’m off. I believe Katrine used to dock off sixpences... Well! you will let the Raynors know that we can have the house?”