ladies," said he; "but my small laundry-work has hitherto
gone, as you know, to old Mrs. Vigurs in St. Faith's Road. Last week
she sent me word that she could no longer undertake it, the fact
being that she has just earned her Old Age Pension and is retiring
upon it. I come to ask if one of you will condescend to take her
place and oblige me."

He paused, tasting the fun of it. As he well knew, they all feared
and hated him for his trick of irony; but at least half a dozen of
them desired his custom, for in St. Hospital (where nothing escaped
notice) Brother Copas's fastidious extravagance in body-linen and his
punctuality in discharging small debts were matters of common
knowledge. Moreover, in their present mood each of these women saw a
chance of spiting another by depriving her of the job.

Brother Copas eyed them with an amiable smile.

"Come," he said, "don't all speak at once! . . . I'll not ask you to
bid for my little contract just now when I see you are all so busy.
But seriously, I invite tenders, and will ask any one of you who
cares for my custom to send me (say by to-morrow evening) a list of
her prices in a sealed envelope, each envelope to bear the words
'Washing List' in an upper corner, that I may put all the tenders
aside and open them together. Eh? What do you say, ladies?"

"I shall be happy for one," said Mrs. Clerihew, laying stress on the
aspirate. She was always careful of this, having lived with
gentlefolks. She burned to know if Brother Copas had heard her call
Mrs. Royle a bitch. Mrs. Royle (to do her justice) when enraged
recked neither what she said nor who overheard. But Mrs. Clerihew,
between her lapses, clung passionately to gentility and the world's
esteem. She was conscious, moreover, that without her false "front"
she must be looking a fright. . . . In short, the wretched woman
rushed into speech because for the moment anything was more tolerable
than silence.

"I thank you, ma'am."

Neither voice nor look betrayed that Brother Copas had overheard or
perceived anything amiss.

Mrs. Clerihew, baffled, began desperately to curry favour.

"And you've brought Brother Bonaday's pretty child, I see. . . . Step
over here, my dear, and watch me--when I've heated this iron.
'Crimping,' they call it, and I've done it for titled folks in my
time. One of these days, I hope, you'll be going into good service
yourself. There's nothing like it for picking up manners."

She t