A slatternly female, whom I supposed to be the servant, admitted me.
“Is Mrs Nash in?” said I.
“Yes, that’s me,” said the lady. “I suppose you’re young Batchelor.”
She spoke gruffly and like a person who was not very fond of boys.
“Yes,” said I.
“All right,” said she; “come in and bring your trunk.”
I obeyed. The place looked very dark and grimy, far worse than ever Stonebridge House had been. I followed her, struggling with my trunk, up the rickety staircase of a house which a hundred years ago might have been a stylish town residence, but which now was one of the forlornest ghosts of a house you ever saw.
I found myself at last in a big room containing several beds.
“Here’s where you’ll sleep,” said the female.
“Are there other boys here, then?” I asked, who had expected a solitary lodging.