“Oh, you’re—you’re Saturday!” said Emma.
Mrs. Montmorency stiffened.
“Any sauciness, and out you go—bag and baggage, lock, stock and barrel!”
“You wouldn’t part with the barrel—not if you thought there was anything in it,” returned Emma, with asperity.
“I think, Emma, you forget who you’re speaking to. Now, what did you say about the rooms?”
“Let ’em, that’s all. Twenty-one shillings a week for the two upstair fronts and the sitting, and they’ll stay three weeks like as not.”
“This comes of my going out!” declared Mrs. Montmorency. “It means that I can’t go out, and that’s what it does mean! Who, may I ask, please, have you let my rooms to at such a price?”
“Old fellow and his daughter.”
“Daughter, indeed! Decidedly, I should say so. A nice thing altogether. Well! it’s what I expected—no more, no less.”
“You can tell ’em to go if you’re not satisfied—I ’aven’t sheeted the beds yet.”