tobacco, and multitudes of empty black bottles under the sideboard.
The kitchen, both in sound and smell, absolutely refused to be ignored.
Such was "Monte Carlo!"

The inmates of "Malahide" have received honourable mention, but nothing
has been said of Mrs. Malone, the proprietress, who kept the
establishment running, as it were, on well-oiled wheels. Joyce Malone
was an Irishwoman who had met with cruel reverses. Well born, well
educated, and an almost penniless widow, she thankfully accepted the
post of housekeeper in a nobleman's family, and there remained until
her savings, and a timely legacy, enabled her to set up for herself.
From the first she had met with success. Her terms were moderate;
butter, eggs and poultry came from her native land; there was no
skimping of coals, or hot water; and clients--who became
permanent--flocked to "Malahide." In appearance Mrs. Malone was a tall
old woman, with a stoop, who shuffled a little as she walked, and
always wore a black gown, a gold Indian chain, and a white lace cap
with ribbon bows. She kept severely aloof from her guests and had her
own little lair on the second landing. It was, she said, "her business
to see to domestic matters, and not to gossip or play bridge."
Nevertheless, she had her favourites: Mr. Hutton and young Shafto.
(Envy and malice declared that Mrs. Malone had _no_ favourites among
her own sex.) She was drawn to the boy by his air of good breeding and
admirable manners; also she noticed with secret indignation how
shamefully his mother neglected and snubbed him. She took far more
notice of Jimmy Black, or Sandy Larcher, than of her own son. No doubt
she disliked to be so unmistakably dated by his tall, well-grown youth,
and her hostess mentally agreed with a gossip who declared that "Mrs.
Shafto didn't care a pin for her boy--rather the other way, and if she
had kept her figure, she could never keep her word, or a secret--and