Saturday came. At breakfast Miss Rodney sent for the landlady, who made a
timid appearance just within the room.

'Good morning, Mrs. Turpin. What news have you for me? You know what I
mean?'

The landlady took a step forward, and began babbling excuses, explanations,
entreaties. She was coldly and decisively interrupted.

'Thank you, Mrs. Turpin, that will do. A week to-day I leave.'

With a sound which was half a sob and half grunt Mrs. Turpin bounced from
the room. It was now inevitable that she should report the state of things
to her husband, and that evening half an hour's circumlocution brought her
to the point. Which of the two lodgers should go? The carpenter paused,
pipe in mouth, before him a geometrical figure over which he had puzzled
for a day or two, and about which, if he could find courage, he wished to
consult the High School mistress. He reflected for five minutes, and
uttered an unhesitating decision. Mr. Rawcliffe must go. Naturally, his
wife broke into indignant clamour, and the debate lasted for an hour or
two; but Turpin could be firm when he liked, and he had solid reasons for
preferring to keep Miss Rodney in the house. At four o'clock Mrs. Turpin
crept softly to the sitting-room where her offended lodger was quietly
reading.

'I wanted just to say, miss, that I'm willing to give Mr. Rawcliffe notice
next Wednesday.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Turpin,' was the cold reply. 'I have already taken other