To be told that she cooked
badly had long ceased to be an insult, and was becoming merely a worrying
truism. That she lived in dirt there seemed no way of denying, and though
every muscle groaned, she began to look upon the physical exertion of
dusting and scrubbing as part of her lot in life. Why she submitted, Mrs.
Turpin could not have told you. And, as was presently to be seen, there
were regions of her mind still unconquered, instincts of resistance which
yet had to come into play.
For, during all this time, Miss Rodney had had her eye on her
fellow-lodger, Mr. Rawcliffe, and the more she observed this gentleman, the
more resolute she became to turn him out of the house; but it was plain to
her that the undertaking would be no easy one. In the landlady's eyes Mr.
Rawcliffe, though not perhaps a faultless specimen of humanity, conferred
an honour on her house by residing in it; the idea of giving him notice to
quit was inconceivable to her. This came out very clearly in the first
frank conversation which Miss Rodney held with her on the topic. It
happened that Mr. Rawcliffe had passed an evening at home, in the company
of his friends. After supping together, the gentlemen indulged in merriment
which, towards midnight, became uproarious.
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