'We have been talking it over. We have decided to book you a passage
to Canada and to give you a hundred pounds with which to keep yourself
alive until you find work to do.'
'What?' she said, 'me leave London? Dear old London, dear old
Leicester Square and the theatres? And leave you to do what you like
with my daughter, you dirty dog? I've seen her nosing round on the
stairs after you, a feller that lives on bread-and-cheese and
grape-nuts. I know your sort, you dirty, interfering blackguard.
You've never given a girl as much as a drink in your life.'
'All the same,' said Rodd, 'your passage will be booked, and if Mr
Claude What's-his-name shows his face here there'll be a neck broken on
the stairs.'
He walked out and heard the old woman gulp down a glass of port and
say,--
'Well, I'm damned!'