“It is not very often hotel accommodation is needed here. People come down for the day. I did not know—I thought perhaps you had friends in the neighbourhood.”
“No, no one I could go to suddenly,” said Mrs Derwent. “I daresay we shall manage well enough,” and she was turning away, when a bright idea struck the agent.
“There are lodgings—private apartments—in the High Street,” he said, “where you could certainly be accommodated for the night, and though it might be in a plain way, it would be quieter and more retired for ladies alone than the hotels. It is at number— What is Miss Halliday’s number in the High Street, Joseph?” he called out to an invisible somebody in the inner office.
There was a moment’s delay. Then the invisible somebody replied.
“Twenty-nine, sir—number twenty-nine.”
“Exactly—twenty-nine. Miss Halliday has a small millinery establishment, but has more rooms than she wants—it is a good-sized house—and lets them to lodgers. And I happen to know that they are vacant at present.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Derwent more cordially than she had yet spoken to the house-agent; “I think that sounds much better. We will drive round there at once.”
“Mamma,” said Blanche, when they were again in the fly, “it may be a very good thing to know of these rooms; for we may find it a convenience to come down here before the house is ready, to superintend its getting into order.”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” her mother agreed; “for I may find the hotel in London very dear. I really don’t know. I could not get them to say anything very definite, but English hotels are always dearer than abroad, I believe. Yes, I really think we are very lucky.”
This opinion increased when, in reply to the flyman’s knock at Miss Halliday’s door, it was opened by a neat, old-fashioned looking, little servant-maid of twelve or thirteen, who replied that her missis was in the shop, but she would see the ladies at once. It was evidently a case of lodgings, not bonnets, and the small damsel appreciated its importance.