“Sit down there, and don’t move till you’re told,” said she, pointing to a little three-legged stool in a corner in the box-room.
“But—” began I.
“Hold your tongue; how dare you speak to me?” she retorted.
“I only—”
“Stand in the corner, with your hands behind you, for disobedience,” said she.
This was getting serious. The little three-legged stool would not have been exactly luxurious; but to be stood in the corner with my hands behind me by a person of the feminine gender called Smiley, was really too bad. The worst of it was that if I made any further protest I might be smacked in addition, and that possibility I hardly dared risk.
So, rather to my own surprise, I found myself standing in the corner, with my hands at my back, scrutinising a blue and pink rose on the wall-paper, and wondering whether it would not be worth my while to write to the Times about the whole business. I could not help thinking that Mrs Smiley did not hurry herself on my account. I was conscious of box after box being dragged to the front, emptied of its contents and put back, to be removed presently by a porter, who probably looked at me every time he came in, but, I am bound to say, received very little encouragement from my studiously averted head.
After nearly an hour I began to get tired, and the blood of the Joneses began to rise within me. I was seriously meditating mutiny, or at least a definite explanation with Mrs Smiley, when at last she broke silence.
“Now, young gentleman, this way, please.”
And she led me to a small comfortable-looking apartment, which I surmised to be her particular sanctum.