It was Thursday, but Bob meant nothing jocose.
“Look here!” he continued, fixing a surly eye upon her. “What do you mean by complaining about me to people? Just mind your own business. When was that girl Jane Snowdon here last?”
“Yesterday, Bob.”
“I thought as much. Did she give you anything?” He made this inquiry in rather a shamefaced way.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Well, I tell you what it is. I’m not going to have her coming about the place, so understand that. When she comes next, you’ll just tell her she needn’t come again.”
Pennyloaf looked at him with dismay. For the delivery of this command Bob had seated himself on the corner of the table and crossed his arms. But for the touch of blackguardism in his appearance, Bob would have been a very good-looking fellow; his face was healthy, by no means commonplace in its mould, and had the peculiar vividness which
