As he uttered the last word Tom jerked up the latch, and strode out; but only to come into violent collision, at the head of the stairs, with his landlord; who appeared to be getting up from his knees. "Hang you, Grocott, what the deuce are you doing here?" the lad cried, backing from him in a rage.
"Cleaning the stairs, your honour," the man pleaded.
"You rascal, I believe you were listening!" Tom retorted. "Is the room below stairs ready? We go at noon, mark me, and shall be back to dine at one."
"To be sure, sir, all will be ready. Does the lady come here first?"
"Yes. Have the cold meats come from the White Horse?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the Burgundy from Pontack's?"
"Yes, your honour."
Tom nodded his satisfaction, and, his temper a little improved, stalked down the stairs. Sophia, who had heard every word, ran to the window and saw him cross Clarges Row in the direction of Shepherd's Market. Probably he was gone to assure himself that the clergyman was at home, and ready to perform the ceremony.
The girl watched him out of sight; then she dried her tears. "I mustn't cry!" she murmured. "I must do something! I must do something!"