This was just the impression she wished to convey, and it was usually some considerable time before her boarders grasped the fact that they were dealing with, a thoroughly shrewd, calculating business woman, who was bent on making every penny out of them that she could, compatibly with running the house on such lines as would ensure its answering to the advertised description.

“I’m glad it’s a sunny day,” she remarked to Miss Bunting.  “First impressions are everything, and that pupil of Signor Baroni’s, Miss Quentin, arrives to-day.  I hope her rooms are quite ready?”

“Quite, Mrs. Lawrence,” replied the lady-help.  “I put a few flowers in the vases just to make it look a little home-like.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Miss Bunting,” Mrs. Lawrence returned graciously.  “Miss Quentin’s is rather a special case.  To begin with, she has engaged a private sitting-room, and in addition to that she was recommended to come here by Signor Baroni himself.”

The good word of a teacher of such standing as Baroni was a matter of the first importance to a lady offering a home from home to musical students, though possibly had Mrs. Lawrence heard the exact form taken by Baroni’s recommendation she might have felt less elated.

“The Lawrence woman is a bit of a shark, my dear,” he had told Diana, when she had explained that, owing to the retirement from business of her former landlady, she would be compelled after Easter to seek fresh rooms.  “But she caters specially for musical students, and as she is therefore obliged to keep the schools pleased, she feeds her boarders, on the whole, better than do most of her species.  And remember, my dear Mees Quentin, that good food, and plenty of good food, means—­voice.”

So Diana had nodded and written to Mrs. Lawrence to ask if a bed-room and sitting-room opening one into the other could be at her disposal, receiving an affirmative reply.

“Regarding coals, Miss Bunting,” proceeded Mrs. Lawrence thoughtfully, “I told Miss Quentin that the charge would be sixpence per scuttle.” (This was in pre-war times, it must be remembered, and the scuttles were of painfully meagre proportions.) “It might be as well to put that large coal-box in her room—­you know the one I mean—­and make the charge eightpence.”

The box in question was certainly of imposing exterior proportions, but its tin lining was of a quite different domestic period and made no pretensions as to fitting.  It lay loosely inside its sham mahogany casing like the shrivelled kernel of a nut in its shell.

“The big coal-scuttle really doesn’t hold twopenny-worth more coal than the others,” observed Miss Bunting tentatively.

A dull flush mounted to Mrs. Lawrence’s cheek.  She liked the prospect of screwing an extra twopence out of one of her boarders, but she hated having the fact so clearly pointed out to her.  There were times when she found Miss Bunting’s conscientiousness something of a trial.