'But Hazel's staying the night, mother, surely?'

'Hazel must get back to her father.'

'But, mother, there's the spare-room.'

'The spare-room's being spring-cleaned.'

Albert plunged; he was desperate and forgetful of propriety.

'I can sleep on this sofa,' he said. 'She can have my room.'

'Hazel can't have your room. It's not suitable.'

'Well, let her share yours, then.'

Mrs. Prowde played her trump-card. 'Little I thought,' she said, 'when
your dear father went, that before three years had passed you'd be so
forgetful of my comfort (and his memory) as to suggest such a thing. As
long as I live, my room's mine. When I'm gone,' she concluded, knocking
down her adversary with her superior weight of years--'when I'm gone
(and the sooner the better for you, no doubt), you can put her in my
room and yourself, too.'

When she had said this she was horrified at herself. What an improper
thing to say! Even anger and jealousy did not excuse impropriety,
though they excused any amount of unkindness.

But at this Hazel cried out in her turn: