“I pass for one, sir.”
“Now, what on earth do you mean?” demanded he. “Is your husband—Mapping—not dead?”
“He was not dead when I last heard of him, sir; that’s a long while ago. But he is not my husband.”
“Not your husband!” echoed the Squire, pushing up his spectacles again. “Have you and he quarrelled and parted?”
Any countenance more pitifully sad than Mrs. Mapping’s was at that moment, I never wish to see. She stood smoothing down her black silk apron (which had a slit in it) with trembling fingers.
“My history is a very painful one,” she said at last in a low voice. “I will tell it if you wish; but not this morning. I should like to tell it you, sir. It is some time since I saw a home-face, and I have often pictured to myself some kind friendly face of those old happy days looking at me while I told it. Different days from these.”
“These cannot be much to boast of,” repeated the Squire. “It must be a precarious sort of living.”
“Of course it fluctuates,” she said. “Sometimes my rooms are full, at other times empty. One has to put the one against the other and strive to tide over the hard days. Mr. Pitt is very good to me in recommending the rooms to medical students; he is a good-natured man.”
“Oh, indeed! Listen to that, Johnny! Pitt good-natured! Rather a loose man, though, I fancy, ma’am.”
“What, Mr. Pitt? Sir, I don’t think so. He has a surgery close by, and gets a good bit of practice——”