"Mrs. J., I couldn't give it; I was forgetting. They are to pay me a pound a-week at Greatorex's; but I can't spend it all in lodgings, I'm afraid. There'll be other things wanted."
"Other things!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones. "I should think there would be other things. Food, and drink, and firing, and light, and wear and tear of clothes, and washing; and a hundred extras beside."
Roland sat in perplexity. Ways and means seem to have grown dark together.
"Couldn't you let me one room? A room with a turn-up bedstead in it, Mrs. Jenkins, or something of that? Couldn't you take the pound a-week, and do for me?"
"I don't know but I might make some such arrangement, and let you have the front parlour," she slowly said. "We've got a Scripture reader in the back one."
Roland started up impulsively to look at the front parlour, intending to take it, off hand. As they quitted the room--which was built out at the back, on the staircase that led down to the kitchen--Roland saw a tall, fair, good-looking young woman, who stopped and asked some question of Mrs. Jones. Which that lady answered sharply.
"I have no time to talk about trifles now, Alletha."
"Who's that?" cried Roland, as they entered the parlour: a small room with a dark paper and faded red curtains.
"It's my sister, Mr. Yorke."
"I say, Mrs. J., this is a stunning room," exclaimed Roland, who was in that eager mood, of his, when all things looked couleur-de-rose. "Can I come in today?"