of 'giving notice' to Mr. Rawcliffe caused her something like dismay; how
could she have the face to turn a real gentleman out of her house? Yes, but
was it not true that she had lost money by him--and stood to lose more? She
had never dared to tell her husband of Mr. Rawcliffe's frequent
shortcomings in the matter of weekly payments. When the easy-going young
man smiled and nodded, and said, 'It'll be all right, you know, Mrs.
Turpin; you can trust _me_, I hope,' she could do nothing but acquiesce.
And Mr. Rawcliffe was more and more disposed to take advantage of this
weakness. If she could find courage to go through with the thing, perhaps
she would be glad when it was over.

Three days went by. Rawcliffe led an unusually quiet and regular life.
There came the day on which his weekly bill was presented. Mrs. Turpin
brought it in person at breakfast, and stood with it in her hand, an image
of vacillation. Her lodger made one of his familiar jokes; she laughed
feebly. No; the words would not come to her lips; she was physically
incapable of giving him notice.

'By the bye, Mrs. Turpin,' said Rawcliffe in an offhand way, as he glanced
at the bill, 'how much exactly do I owe you?'

Pleasantly agitated, his landlady mentioned the sum.

'Ah! I must settle that. I tell you what, Mrs. Turpin. Let it stand over
for another month, and we'll square things up at Christmas. Will that suit
you?'

And, by way of encouragement, he paid his week's account on the spot,
without a penny of deduction. Mrs. Turpin left the room in greater
embarrassment than ever.