“I won't go till my three weeks are up,” said Mr. Hatchard, doggedly, “so you may as well behave yourself.”
“I can't pamper you for a pound a week,” said Mrs. Hatchard, walking to the door. “If you want pampering, you had better go.”
A week passed, and the additional expense caused by getting most of his meals out began to affect Mr. Hatchard's health. His wife, on the contrary, was in excellent spirits, and, coming in one day, explained the absence of the easy-chair by stating that it was wanted for a new lodger.
“He's taken my other two rooms,” she said, smiling—“the little back parlor and the front bedroom—I'm full up now.”
“Wouldn't he like my table, too?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, with bitter sarcasm.
His wife said that she would inquire, and brought back word next day that Mr. Sadler, the new lodger, would like it. It disappeared during Mr. Hatchard's enforced absence at business, and a small bamboo table, weak in the joints, did duty in its stead.
The new lodger, a man of middle age with a ready tongue, was a success from the first, and it was only too evident that Mrs. Hatchard was trying her best to please him. Mr. Hatchard, supping on bread and cheese, more than once left that wholesome meal to lean over the balusters and smell the hot meats going into Mr. Sadler.
“You're spoiling him,” he said to Mrs. Hatchard, after the new lodger had been there a week. “Mark my words—he'll get above himself.”
“That's my look-out,” said his wife briefly.
“Don't come to me if you get into trouble, that's all,” said the other.