He went to the door and looked in.
Patience faced him.
“What do you want? Who are you? This is my house, and I will not be turned out of it.”
She took him for a sanitary officer, or a lawyer, come to enforce her expulsion.
“This is a queer hole for a lady to occupy as her boudoir,” said Mr. Welsh, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “I wouldn’t care for this style of thing myself except as a drawing copy. Not to become a hero of romance, or to give my experience in a magazine article would I sleep under that chimney on a stormy night.”
“Nobody has invited you,” said Patience, blocking her door.
“And pray, madam, whose house is this? Is this the sort of cottage my lord provides for his tenants?”
“The house is mine.”
“Copyhold or freehold?”
“I pay a ground rent for it of two shillings; it is mine for life, and then it falls to his lordship.”