“A chop will be excellent.”
“Then I’ll leave you to wash your ’ands. There are some bits of yellow in the soap-dishes, but if you’ve brought your own, I’d use it.”
At the top of the stairs she turned and addressed Mornice.
“You may as well be warned. The ’andle of the water-jug in your room is only stuck on with fish-glue, so you’d better lift by the sides when you’re pouring out. Three people ’ave paid for that ’andle already.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Mornie, trying not to laugh.
“Thought I’d tell you. Not but what you’re sure to forget; then you’ll make the fourth.” And with this melancholy foreboding Emma descended toward the kitchen.
Emma’s cooking of the chops was of more attractive quality than her conversational manner of introducing them. She further supplemented the meal with a sweet omelette, expressing a doubt, while serving it, that the price of the eggs used would probably “put them in a state” when they had to settle the bill.
Mornice was enchanted with Emma, and gave a graphic performance of her voice and manner for Eliphalet’s after-dinner delectation.
“She’s lovely,” declared Mornice; “and I only hope Mrs. ‘Montblancmangy’ will be half as funny.”
The lady in question did not arrive home until after Mornice had set out to meet Ronald Knight. It was about five-thirty when Eliphalet heard the click of a key in the front door and the sound of footsteps in the passage. Apparently, the owner of the house was a clumsy person, for a great rattling betokened a collision with the umbrella-stand. There followed the noise of objects falling, and Eliphalet undertook to surmise that the three plush-backed clothes-brushes had been flung from their brass hooks to the floor. A certain amount of scuffling ensued, and then a female voice, speaking in detached tones, said: