"Coals--"

"We shall not quarrel," for a third time the stranger interrupted.
"You have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs.
Pennycherry, I can leave myself entirely in your hands."

The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having
put a match to the stranger's fire, turned to depart. And at this
point it was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken
record for sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes
earlier in her career, would have deemed impossible--that no living
soul who had ever known her would have believed, even had Mrs.
Pennycherry gone down upon her knees and sworn it to them.

"Did I say three pound ten?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the
stranger, her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling
cross, with the stranger, with herself--particularly with herself.

"You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount," replied the
stranger; "but if upon reflection you find yourself unable--"

"I was making a mistake," said Mrs. Pennycherry, "it should have been
two pound ten."

"I cannot--I will not accept such sacrifice," exclaimed the stranger;
"the three pound ten I can well afford."

"Two pound ten are my terms," snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. "If you are
bent on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You'll find plenty to
oblige you."