"I'm free now," I said.
It was a good deal like having three babies to look after instead of one, and, at any rate the occupation saved me from brooding over the finish of my engagement with Cartwright. I half hoped a letter would come from Seaford apologising for swift words and impetuous action, and I went so far as to draft an amiable reply, but the necessity for sending this did not arise. On the first Sunday I could manage to leave Gloucester Place, I hurried to Chislehurst, and ascertained the private address of the auctioneer. He answered the ring, and protested in a voluble way against interference with his one day of rest. His nose to the grindstone throughout the week, he declared, and here he was disturbed for the third time on the afternoon that he felt entitled to claim as exempt from the worries of business. I made as though to leave, but this procedure also failed to meet with his favour.
"Come in," he ordered, recklessly. "I'm a born slave, I suppose, and folk have got the idea that they're all entitled to act as my overseers." He flung open the door of the front room. "Uncle Tom's Cabin," he declared, "is nothing to it."
I glanced around. One of the chairs had a ticket, "Lot 240," still attached.
"I never saw Uncle Tom's Cabin," I remarked, "but if it was anything like this, the people had grounds for complaining."
"Most of the articles of furniture were bargains."
"No," I said. "Never were bargains, never will be bargains. It's all a muddle. Wonder to me is that you can live with it. I should go crazy if I were put amongst shoddy stuff of this kind."
"Tell me," he begged, "what you consider is wrong with the room."
There was little left when I had complied with his request, and he became increasingly submissive as I went on with the task. In going through the crowded mantelpiece I came across two cards that were seemingly intended to be placed out of sight. A kindly action is supposed to be its own reward, but here was something in the nature of a definite prize.