Don't 'ee be afeared of 'im, dearie."
The old woman, who was laden with a big basket and a bundle, went out
and Lavinia with much misgiving ascended the stairs. She remembered the
name, Solomon Moggs. He was the landlord. If his nature was as harsh and
discordant as his voice poor Lancelot Vane was having an unpleasant
time.
"Ill, are ye?" she heard Moggs shrieking. "I can't help that. I didn't
make you ill, did I? Maybe you was in a drunken brawl last night. It
looks like it with that bandage round your head. You scribbling gentry,
the whole bunch of ye, aren't much good. I don't see the use of you. Why
don't ye do some honest work and pay what you owes? I can't afford to
keep you for nothing. Stump up or out ye go neck and crop."
Lavinia ran up the next flight. The landing at the top was low pitched
and dark. The only light was that which came from the open door of a
front room. In the doorway was a little man in a shabby coat which
reached down to his heels. His wig was frowsy, his three-cornered hat
was out of shape and he held a big stick with which he every now and
then thumped the floor to emphasise his words.
Beyond this unpleasant figure she could see a small untidy room with a
sloping roof. The floor, the chairs--not common ones but of the early
Queen Anne fashion with leathern seats--an old escritoire, were strewn
with papers. The occupant and owner was invisible.
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