“I'll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his pocket. “Of course, if you're afraid of having me here—afraid o' giving way to tenderness, I mean——”
“Afraid?” choked Mrs. Hatchard. “Tenderness! I—I——”
“Just a matter o' business,” continued her husband; “that's my way of looking at it—that's a man's way. I s'pose women are different. They can't——”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard. Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her. At the top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him to enter. Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically.
“Smells rather stuffy,” he said, at last.
“You needn't have it,” said his wife, abruptly. “There's plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“Yes; and I expect they'd stay there if they saw this room,” said the other.
“Don't think I want you to have it; because I don't,” said Mrs. Hatchard, making a preliminary movement to showing him downstairs.
“They might suit me,” said Mr. Hatchard, musingly, as he peeped in at the sitting-room door. “I shouldn't be at home much. I'm a man that's fond of spending his evenings out.”
Mrs. Hatchard, checking a retort, eyed him grimly.