“Look here,” said the landlady, “aint you from Down East, some'eres?”
Marcia started, as if the woman had recognized them. “Yes.” she said.
“Well, now,” said Mrs. Nash, “I'm from down Maine way myself, and I'll tell you what I should do, if I was in your place. You don't want much of anything tor breakfast or tea; you can boil you an egg on the stove here, and you can make your own tea or coffee; and if I was you, I'd go out for my dinners to an eatin'-house. I heard some my lodgers tellin' how they done. Well, I heard the very gentlemen that occupied this room sayin' how they used to go to an eatin'-house, and one 'd order one thing, and another another, and then they'd halve it between 'em, and make out a first-rate meal for about a quarter apiece. Plenty of places now where they give you a cut o'lamb or rib-beef for a shillin', and they bring you bread and butter and potato with it; an' it's always enough for two. That's what they said. I haint never tried it myself; but as long as you haint got anybody but yourselves to care for, there aint any reason why you shouldn't.”
They looked at each other.
“Well,” added the landlady for a final touch, “say fire. That stove won't burn a great deal, anyway.”
“All right,” said Bartley, “we'll take the room—for a month, at least.”
Mrs. Nash looked a little embarrassed. If she had made some concession to the liking she had conceived for this pretty young couple, she could not risk everything. “I always have to get the first week in advance—where there ain't no reference,” she suggested.
“Of course,” said Bartley, and he took out his pocket-book, which he had a boyish satisfaction in letting her see was well filled. “Now, Marcia,” he continued, looking at his watch, “I'll just run over to the hotel, and give up our room before they get us in for dinner.”
Marcia accepted Mrs. Nash's invitation to come and sit with her till the chill was off the room; and she borrowed a pen and paper of her to write home. The note she sent was brief: she was not going to seem to ask anything of her father. But she was going to do what was right; she told him where she was, and she sent her love to her mother. She would not speak of her things; he might send them or not, as he chose; but she knew he would. This was the spirit of her letter, and her training had not taught her to soften and sweeten her phrase; but no doubt the old man, who was like her, would understand that she felt no compunction for what she had done, and that she loved him though she still defied him.
Bartley did not ask her what her letter was when she demanded a stamp of him on his return; but he knew. He inquired of Mrs. Nash where these cheap eating-houses were to be found, and he posted the letter in the first box they came to, merely saying, “I hope you haven't been asking any favors, Marsh?”