Janet.  I should think so indeed!  They sent it up the second day. (Into telephone.) Hot milk, please, and let it be hot! (Hanging up telephone.  To carve.) I expect they were afraid for their money.

Carve.  And you paid it?

Janet.  I took the money out of your pockets and I just paid it.  I never said a word.  But if you hadn’t been ill I should have said something.  Of all the swindles, of all the barefaced swindles!...  Do you see what it’s costing you to live here—­a day?

Carve.  Oh, not much above four pounds, I hope.

Janet. (Speechless at first.) Any woman that knew her business could keep you for a month—­a month—­for less than you spend here in a day—­and better.  And better!  Look here:  “Biscuits, 1s. 6d.!”

Carve.  Well?

Janet.  Well (confidentially earnest.), will you believe me when I tell you there wasn’t a pennyworth of biscuits on that plate?  Do you think I don’t know what biscuits are a pound?

Carve.  Really!

Janet. (Ironically.) “Cheapest in the end”—­but I should say the end’s a long way off.

Carve. (Who has picked up another paper, on mantelpiece.) What?  “Admit Mr. Albert Shawn to Westminster Abbey, cloisters entrance....  Funeral....  Tuesday."...  That’s to-day, isn’t it?

Janet.  Yes.

Carve. (Moved.) But you told me he wasn’t going to be buried in
Westminster Abbey.

Janet.  I know.

Carve.  You told me Cyrus Carve had insisted on cremation.

Janet. (With vivacity.) And what did you expect me to tell you?  I had to soothe you somehow; you were just about delirious.  I was afraid if I told you the truth you’d be doing something silly—­seeing the state you were in.  Then it struck me a nice plain cremation at Woking was the very thing to keep you quiet.

Carve. (Still more moved.) Then he’s....  Westminster Abbey!

Janet.  Yes, I should say all is over by this time.  There were thousands of people for the lying-in-state, it seems.

Carve.  But it’s awful.  Absolutely awful.

Janet.  Why is it awful?

Carve.  I told you—­I explained the whole thing to you.

Janet. (Humouring, remonstrating.) Mr. Shawn, surely you’ve got rid of that idea!  You aren’t delirious now.  You said you were convalescent, you know.

Carve.  There’ll be a perfect Hades of a row.  I must write to the Dean at once.  I must——­

Janet. (Soothingly.) I shouldn’t if I were you.  Why not let things be? 
No one would believe that tale——­

Carve.  Do you believe it?

Janet. (Perfunctorily.) Oh yes.

Carve.  No, you don’t.  Honestly, do you now?

Janet.  Well——­(Knock at door.) Come in. (Enter waiter with hot milk.) Here’s your hot milk.