“Yes, that ’ud be just the thing, ma’am. It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest it, as you might say. Cutlets and a nice bit of Welsh Rarebit to follow.” She lingered in the doorway, and Elizabeth wondered what she wanted. “My ’usband ’e used to be very partial to Welsh Rarebit, ’e did. But then there’s no knowing what fancies a man’ll take to, is there, ma’am?”

“No,” said Elizabeth.

“You’ll pardon the liberty, ma’am, but you looking so young an’ all, an’ Mrs. Pearson passing the remark like she did, I do ’ope as ’ow you ’aven’t lorst your ’usband. Not seeing ’im an’ you not mentioning ’is name— Well, there it is. I’m not one for poking an’ prying into what don’t concern me, but I’ve ’ad a bit of trouble myself, what with my pore ’usband ’aving a stroke in the Strand, and ’im being carried straight away to the ’rspital—well, what I mean is, I know what it is to ’ave trouble one way and another.” She paused for breath. Elizabeth dipped her pen in the ink.

“My husband is quite well, thank you. He is in Spain —on business.”

Mrs. Cotton seemed to be much relieved at this piece of intelligence. She prepared to depart.

“Ah, well, I daresay as ’ow we shall be seeing ’im before very long then,” she said optimistically.

Elizabeth wanted to throw something at her, something very hard and sharp.