"Are you the landlady?" Maggie asked.
"I ham," said the woman. "Mrs. Brandon--ma'am."
The servant-girl had suspended operations, kneeling up and watching
with open mouth developments.
"I'm very glad to meet you," said Maggie. "How do you do?"
"How do you do, ma'am?" said Mrs. Brandon.
"The point is just this," said Maggie, speaking rather fast as
though she were confused, which she was not. "Mr. Warlock is a very
old friend of mine and I'm afraid he's very ill indeed. He's very
ill and there's nobody to look after him. What I was wondering was
whether there was a bedroom in your house that I could have--so that
I could look after him, you see, and get him anything he wants."
Mrs. Brandon overlooked Maggie from head to foot--very slowly she
did it, her eyes passing over the rather shabby black hat, the short
hair, the plain black dress, the shoes worn and soiled. She also
looked at Maggie's wedding-ring.
"Well, Mrs.--" she began.
"Mrs. Trenchard is my name," said Maggie, blushing in spite of
herself at the long scrutiny.
"I 'ope you're not reproaching anybody with neglect of the
gentleman.
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