Mr. Pepys did not like the gleam of the gun-barrel, nor the mystery of the place; but he felt more at ease, now that he had something in petticoats to deal with.
“I must make my apologies, ma’am,” he said, intending to try civility, “for disturbing you at such an hour. We have lost ourselves twice to-day on the road. Seeing us to be such quiet gentlemen, you might be persuaded—”
The woman cut him short without great ceremony, and they heard the grinding of hinges as the man closed the court-yard gate.
“You had better walk more this way or the dog will have a bite at your leg.”
“Obliged, ma’am, I swear,” and he took the hint promptly. “If you happen to have a warm corner in your kitchen—”
“I don’t keep a tavern, sir,” she said, quietly. “This is my man’s business, not mine. If you can’t sleep on clean hay, the more’s the pity.”
Mr. Pepys felt frost-bitten. Here was a lady who meant what she said, and was not to be argued with. Mr. Pepys had studied the sex. “Barn” she had said, and “barn” it would be.
The woman pulled open a door that sagged on its hinges and scraped the stones with its lower edge, and going in she hung the lantern to a nail in the wall. Mr. Pepys saw a litter of hay in one corner, a pile of broken bricks in another, and a few old garden tools and remnants of furniture in a third. He could not refrain from making a cynical grimace.
“This is the dearest and the dirtiest lodging, ma’am, I ever paid for in advance.”
“That’s as you please, sir; be grateful for what you can get.”