Part 11

“Why?” I demanded. “Are you insinuating that we are not equal to a handful of Englishmen? Recall the Boston tea-party. We will give them the first strawberries of the season, and plenty of tea. Feed them; that’s the main thing,” I said, firmly, taking up my pen and looking steadily at her.

“I’ll go,” she said, hastily. “Do you have to go to the bank to-day? You know to-morrow we must pay our weekly bill.”

“It won’t be much,” I said, cheerfully; “I am sure I have enough.”

The next day the bill came. Our landlady sent it up on the breakfast-tray. I opened it, then shrieked for my sister. It covered four pages of note-paper.

“For heaven’s sake! what is the matter?” she cried. “Has anything happened to Billy?”

“Billy! This thing is not an American letter. It is the bill for our cheap lodgings. Look at it! Look at the extras—gas, coals, washing bed—linen, washing table—linen, washing towels, kitchen fires, service, oil for three lamps, afternoon tea, and three shillings for sundries on the fourth page! What can sundries include? She hasn’t skipped anything but pew-rent.”

My sister looked at the total, and buried her face in the pillows to smother a groan.

“Ring the bell,” I said; “I want the maid.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find out what ‘sundries’ are.”

She gave the bell-cord such a pull that she broke the wire, and it fell down on her head.

“That, too, will go in the bill. Wrap your handkerchief around your hand and give the wire a jerk. Give it a good one. I don’t care if it brings the police.”

The maid came.

“Martha, present my compliments to Mrs. Black, and ask her what ‘sundries’ include.”

Martha came back smiling.

“Please, miss, Mrs. Black’s compliments, and ‘sundries’ means that you complained that the coffee was muddy, and after that she cleared it with an egg. ‘Sundries’ means the eggs.”

“Martha,” I said, weakly, “give me those Crown salts. No, no, I forgot; those are Mrs. Black’s salts. Take them out and tell her I only smelled them once.”

“Martha,” said my sister, dragging my purse out from under my pillow, “here is sixpence not to tell Mrs. Black anything.” Then when Martha disappeared she said, “How often have I told you not to jest with servants?”

“I forgot,” I said, humbly. “But Martha has a sense of humor, don’t you think?”

“I never thought anything about it. But what are you going to do about that bill?”

“I’m going to argue about it, and declare I won’t pay it, and then pay it like a true American. Would you have me upset the traditions? But I’ve got to go to the bank first.”

I did just as I said. I argued to no avail. Mrs. Black was quite haughty, and made me feel like a chimney-sweep. I paid her in full, and when I came up I said:

“You are quite right. She has a poor opinion of us. When I asked her how long it would take to drive to a house in West End, she said, ‘Why do you want to know?’ I said I ‘wanted to see the house.’”

“Didn’t you tell her we were invited there?” asked my sister, scandalized.

“No; I said I had heard a good deal about the house, and she said it was open to the public on Fridays. So I said we’d go then.”

“I think you are horrid!” cried Bee. “The insolence of that woman! And you actually think it is funny! You think everything is funny.”

I soothed her by pointing out some of the things which I considered sad, notably English people trying to enjoy themselves. Then the men began to drop in for tea, and that succeeded in making her forget her troubles.

Reggie and the Duke arrived together. My sister at once took charge of the Duke, while Reggie said to me, “I say, what sort of creature is the old girl below?”