'Bills?' queried that damsel, sharply.

Pierre, of course, did not answer, but touched his lips with his
hand to indicate he was dumb. Miss Twexby, however, read the action
another way.

'You want a drink,' she said, with a scornful toss of her head.
'Where's your money?'

Pierre pointed out the letter, and although it was directed to her
father, Miss Twexby, who managed everything, opened it and found it
was from McIntosh, saying that the bearer, Pierre Lemaire, was to
have a bed for the night, meals, drinks, and whatever else he
required, and that he--McIntosh--would be responsible for the money.
He furthermore added that the bearer was dumb.

'Oh, so you're dumb, are you,' said Miss Twexby, folding up the
letter and looking complacently at Pierre. 'I wish there were a few
more men the same way; then, perhaps, we'd have less chat.'

This being undeniable, the fair Martha--for that was the name of the
Twexby heiress--without waiting for any assent, walking into the
back parlour, read the letter to her father, and waited
instructions, for she always referred to Simon as the head of the
house, though as a matter of fact she never did what she was told
save when it tallied with her own wishes.

'It will be all right, Martha, I suppose,' said Simon sleepily.