“I don’t charge. Mrs Manners is not well. It is a pleasure to me to take charge of the children, so that she may have a little rest.”
She “begged pardon” hastily, and with repetition, staring the while with incredulous eyes. Quite evidently she considered me a benevolent lunatic, and marked me down as a useful prey. I might not be willing to push her pram, but—The very next evening a small servant knocked at the door with Mrs Lorrimer’s compliments, and could Miss Harding lend her a fresh egg? (Her name is Lorrimer, and the children are called Claudia, Moreen, and Eric, and look it.) A fortnight has passed since that encounter, and the tale of her indebtedness to me is now as follows:—
One egg.
A cup of sugar.
Two lemons.
“A bit of butter, as we’re run out.”
A box of matches and a candle.
“One scuttle of nice cobbles, please. We have only slack left.”
Three stamps.
“Just a pinch or two of tea, as we forgot to order over Sunday.”