“Well, Mrs. McRankine?” I began, upturning a hypocritical eye from the newspaper.
“’Well,’ is it? Nhm!”
I lifted the breakfast cover, and saw before me a damnatory red herring.
“Rowley was very foolish last night,” I remarked, with a discriminating stress on the name.
“’The ass knoweth his master’s crib.’” She pointed to the herring. “It’s all ye’ll get, Mr.—Ducie, if that’s your name.”
“Madam”—I held out the fish at the end of my fork—“you drag it across the track of an apology.” I set it back on the dish and replaced the cover. “It is clear that you wish us gone. Well and good: grant Rowley a day for recovery, and to-morrow you shall be quit of us.” I reached for my hat.
“Whaur are ye gaun?”
“To seek other lodgings.”
“I’ll no say—Man, man! have a care! And me beat to close an eye the nicht!” She dropped into a chair. “Nay, Mr. Ducie, ye daurna! Think o’ that innocent lamb!”