The old woman's stiff grey eyebrows grew together. 'No!' she said sharply. 'Nothing of the kind!'
'A Miss Masterson.'
'No' she snapped, her face more and more forbidding. 'We have no Misses here, and no baggages for fine gentlemen! You have come to the wrong house!' And she tried to shut the door in his face.
He was puzzled and a little affronted; but he set his foot between the door and the post, and balked her. 'One moment, my good woman,' he said. 'This is Mr. Fishwick's, is it not?'
'Ay, 'tis,' she answered, breathing hard with indignation. 'But if it is him your honour wants to see, you must come when he is at home. He is not at home to-day.'
'I don't want to see him,' Sir George said. 'I want to speak to the young lady who is staying here.'
'And I tell you that there is no young lady staying here!' she retorted wrathfully. 'There is no soul in the house but me and my serving girl, and she's at the wash-tub. It is more like the Three Tuns you want! There's a flaunting gipsy-girl there if you like--but the less said about her the better.'
Sir George stood and stared at the woman. At last, on a sudden suspicion, 'Is your servant from Oxford?' he said.
She seemed to consider him before she answered. 'Well, if she is?' she said grudgingly. 'What then?'
'Is her name Masterson?'