“I don’t understand, I am afraid,” she faltered.
“You are used to feathers, I dare say?” with a sneer.
“Oh, for a bed?”
“What else?” impatiently. “Good lord, haven’t you your senses? You can have your choice. It’s eight-pence for chaff, and a shilling for feathers.”
“I don’t mind paying while I’ve money,” Henrietta said humbly. “If you’ll please to charge me what is right.”
“Well, it’s cheap enough, lord knows; for since the changes there’s no garnish this side. And for the third of the earnings that’s left to us, I’d not give fippence a week for all!”
The man had dragged in, while she talked, a kind of wooden trough for the bed, and set it in a corner. He had then departed for firing, and returned with a shovelful of burning coals, for the room was as cold as the grave.
“There’s a pump in the yard,” the woman said, “and a can and basin, but you must serve yourself. And there’s a pitcher for drinking. And you can have from the cook-shop what you like to order in. You’ll have to keep your place clean; but as long as you behave yourself, we’ll treat you according. Only let us have no scratching and screaming!” she continued. “Tempers don’t pay here, I’ll warn you. And for swoonings we just turn the tap on! So do you take notice.” And with a satisfied look round, “For the rest, there’s many a young woman that’s not gone wrong that’s not so comfortable as you, my girl. And I’d have you know it.”
Henrietta coloured painfully.
“I shall do very well,” she said meekly. “But I’ve not done anything wrong.”