Whenever Mrs Marrot said anything with unusual emphasis, baby Marrot entertained the unalterable conviction that he was being scolded; no sooner, therefore, did he observe the well-known look, and hear the familiar tones, than he opened wide his mouth and howled with injured feeling. At the same moment a train rushed past like an average earthquake, and in the midst of this the man of law rose, and saying that he would communicate with Mrs Marrot soon, took his leave.
Next evening Mrs Tipps was seated at tea with Netta, planning with anxious care how to make the two ends meet, but, apparently, without much success.
“It is dreadful, Netta,” said Mrs Tipps; “I was never before brought to this condition.”
“It is very dreadful,” responded Netta, “but that renders it all the more imperative that we should take some decided step towards the payment of our debts.”
“Yes, the liquidation of our debts,” said Mrs Tipps, nodding slowly; “that was the term your dear father was wont to use.”
“You know, mamma, at the worst we can sell our furniture—or part of it—and pay them off, and then, with a system of rigid economy—”
A postman’s knock cut short the sentence, and in a few seconds Mrs Durby—careworn and subdued—presented a letter to her mistress and retired.
“My—my dear!” exclaimed Mrs Tipps, “th–this is positively miraculous. Here is a cheque for fifty pounds, and—but read for yourself.”
Netta seized the letter and read it aloud. It ran thus:—
“Clarendon Hotel, London.