"That is indeed true," he replied. "And therefore I beg you to let us rest in your house until the young lady is fit to travel."
"It's easy to talk of travelling," she objected with sour insolence. "But 'tis my belief that, once let the hussy in, I'll never be rid of her."
"My desire to be gone," replied Dick, "by far outweighs any anxiety of yours, my good woman."
"Are you her husband?" asked the woman, impressed, but trying to keep the severity from fading out of her face.
"Not yet," replied Dick, assuming an expression of extreme solemnity. "About us two, madam, hangs a web of mystery. It is a story I should like to confide in you, for there is something in your face which reminds me of my old mother," and he brought a note of pathos into his voice, straight from the pages of "East Lynne," words and tone coming with an ease which surprised him.
"There's naught preventing," said the woman, expectantly.
"Except that the lady needs rest, I want a wash, and we both want food," said Dick. "You just be as kind as you look, and I'll give you a pound for every half-hour we spend in your house, and, if there's time, a romance into the bargain. You know what's stranger than fiction, don't you, mother?"
"The truth, they do say. But I dunno," she answered, doubtfully.
"What has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours," said Dick, "would shame the most exciting serial in the Millsborough Herald."
"'Tis the Courier has the best," interrupted the woman eagerly.