Eliphalet addressed her as “Madam” and enquired if she were Mrs. Montmorency. “No,” came the reply, with a touch of pride, so Mornice thought. “No, but I do for her. I’m Emma. What might you want?” “We are requiring two bedrooms and a sitting-room.” “Y-es. We could do that. Are you theatricals? But there! I needn’t ask, for it’s stamped on your faces as plain as the words on a wall.” Eliphalet remarked that the doorstep was inhospitable, and suggested they might be invited to inspect the rooms. “You shall see them,” said Emma, adding, “Such as they are.” She led them within. “There—this’d be the sitting-room, if you was to take it.” “But it is, in any case,” said Mornice with a twinkle. Emma shook her head discouragingly. “Well, come!” said Eliphalet. “This is quite comfortable.” It was the twin of every other theatrical parlour, with its ponderous wallpaper, plush upholsterings and curtains, palm pedestal in the window and draper’s paintings on the walls. Emma nodded gloomily. “I suppose it’s all right,” she allowed. “If you want to see the bedrooms, you’ll ’ave to climb the stairs, for there’s no other way.” She led the procession to the floor above, and revealed two reasonably well-kept bedrooms, with blue linoleum on the floors and scarlet Paisley eiderdowns on the beds. “I think this should suit us very well. Er—what about terms, now?” Emma straightened a little doormat with the dilapidated toe of her shoe. “’Ardly know what to say about terms. You see, she’s funny about ’em. Tries to get all she can—but she always takes less.” “Perhaps I could speak to her?” “No, no, you couldn’t, not very well. Y’see, she’s out—Saturday!—You know what I mean. You must arrange with me or not at all.” “Certainly, as you please.” “What about twenty-five shillings, then?” Eliphalet hesitated, on principle. “We should probably be here for three weeks,” he observed. “Then you’re not playing in the town?” “No; rehearsing.” “That’s a pity, ’cause I’d ’ave asked for a seat Friday. ’Sides, if you’re r’hearsing, it’s unlikely you’d be able to afford twenty-five.” “We could afford a great deal more,” said Eliphalet, with a touch of silly pride. “But one does not pay more than a penny for a penny bun.” “But even then you may get a stale one,” replied Emma philosophically. “Well, I should think twenty-five shillings ’ud be enough, then. ’Tis enough, as a matter of fac’—plenty.” “Very well; we will leave it at that.” “All right. I ’spec’ she’ll raise a rare to-do about it, but one can’t help that. Pity she wasn’t ’ome ’erself—but there, it’s Saturday, and you know what that means! ’Ave you ’ad your dinners?” “No,” said Mornice; “and we’re dreadfully hungry.” “Well, I suppose a chop each ’ud do, for liver’s very dear, and I don’t suppose you want to spend much.” “A chop will be excellent.” “Then I’ll leave you to wash your ’ands. There are some bits of yellow in the soap-dishes, but if you’ve brought your own, I’d use it.”