“I take all the responsibility,” he went on, “but she said it was no use letting the grass grow under our feet.”
“I wish,” said Mrs. Rollinson aside, to the negro figure in the corner, “that grass was growing over her head!”
This was the final word of a vehement nature that George’s mother used in regard to her daughter-in-law. When she took some of the furniture, and rode away on the tail of the van to Chalk Farm, she told the middle-aged man with the green baize apron that there was nothing like retiring from business whilst one was still capable of enjoying life: to the lady who owned the house where the furniture was unloaded she mentioned, in taking possession of the two rooms on the ground floor, that her only visitors would be her son and her son’s wife; she hoped they would be in and out of the place frequently. Mrs. Rollinson gave a short, enthusiastic description of the bride and remarked that she already looked upon the girl as her own daughter.
“It’ll be a comfort to me, ma’am,” said the landlady mournfully, “to have a merry party about the house. The only thing is—I don’t mean anything personal—but I’ve generally found that when parties were cheerful, they turned out to be rather bad payers.”
Mrs. Rollinson produced her pass-book; exhibited figures showing the balance to her credit.
“That’s good enough,” said the other, with something like rapture. She was leaving the room, but curiosity detained her at the edge of the carpet. “You must have had some rare strokes of luck, in your day, ma’am!”
Mrs. Rollinson shook her head resolutely. “It’s all been saved out of hard work,” she declared.
“I was half hoping,” remarked the landlady, relapsing into gloom, “it was a case of easy come, easy go!”
The expected callers did not arrive on the first Sunday afternoon, although tea was prepared, crumpets ready, and Mrs. Rollinson had rehearsed several amiable speeches to be addressed to her daughter-in-law. So soon as it became dusk she walked down to Southampton Row, and from the opposite side of the roadway took a view. The shop was shuttered, and, alarmed by this—Sunday evening was one of the best times for receipts—she crossed, and read the notice. Retail Department Closed, said the bills. Central Office of the English Tobacco Syndicate. Branches all over the Country. Capital—and here so many figures (mainly noughts) that Mrs. Rollinson could not reckon them.
“Slippery money,” she said, on the way home. She paid the cabman in threepenny pieces, and he remarked that she might as well also hand over the offertory bag.