“Now, that’s a nice cup o’ tea, sir. You won’t find nothink wrong with
_that_. That’s ’olesome, that is. I knows ’ow to make the sort of tea
that gentlemen like. Cutts is my name, Mrs. Cutts. They all knows me
about ’ere. I been doin’ for the artists this thirty year, and I’m up to
all their goin’s-on. I know ’ow to cook their breakfisses and look after
their bits of paintings and sich, an’ w’en to speak an’ w’en to ’old my
tongue, sir. That’s wot they pays me for.”
“Thank you,” I said, “it’s an excellent cup of tea.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. My name is Cutts, if you should ever be
a-wantin’ me. Anybody in these studios will tell you w’ere to find Mrs.
Cutts. ’Ere’s Mr. Lathom a’comin’, sir.”
She lurched away as Lathom emerged from his bedroom.
I will admit that the first impression he made upon me was a good one.
His appearance was clean, and his manners were pleasant.
“I see Mrs. Cutts has given you a cup of tea,” he said, when he had
shaken hands. “Won’t you have a spot of breakfast with me?”