“And they beat you down?”
“Oh, yes,” said Emma, who was sick of the whole affair.
“I thought as much. And where are they playing?”
“Nowhere. They’re r’hearsing.”
“Indeed! And who ever heard of letting rooms to an actor who was rehearsing?”
“They’ve got to sleep somewhere while they’re doing it—haven’t they?”
“They are not going to sleep here—not after to-night, or to-morrow at the latest. That I have made up my mind to. This house is not a charitable institution; whatever else it may be, it isn’t that.”
“A truer word never passed your lips,” said Emma, and escaped before the inevitable warning about sauciness found expression.
Mrs. Montmorency drank soberly for an hour to lubricate her reflections. She heard Mornice come in about eight o’clock, and was fired with a desire to go into the passage and denounce her. This project, however, she abandoned for want of material for the accusation. She decided that a dignified letter would be the best means of being rid of the pair of them, and this she set about to write. But, chiefly due to the error of dipping the wrong end of the pen into the ink, the dignity failed to appear on the page. Even in her semi-bemused condition she realised that Eliphalet could hardly be expected to fathom the meaning of her shadow-graphs, and so decided to leave the matter unsettled until the morning. That being so, it was obviously a slight on her maker of cognac to leave the bottle unemptied—and, after all, it was Saturday.
She was singing some little trifle of song when, about ten o’clock, she perilously mounted the stairs toward the oblivion of her bed-chamber.