“I've seen worse,” he said, slowly; “but then I've seen a good many. How much are you asking?”
“Seven shillings a week,” replied his wife. “With breakfast, tea, and supper, a pound a week.”
Mr. Hatchard nearly whistled, but checked himself just in time.
“I'll give it a trial,” he said, with an air of unbearable patronage.
Mrs. Hatchard hesitated.
“If you come here, you quite understand it's on a business footing,” she said.
“O' course,” said the other, with affected surprise. “What do you think I want it on?”
“You come here as a stranger, and I look after you as a stranger,” continued his wife.
“Certainly,” said the other. “I shall be made more comfortable that way, I'm sure. But, of course, if you're afraid, as I said before, of giving way to tender——”
“Tender fiddlesticks!” interrupted his wife, flushing and eying him angrily.