Mrs Twexby had long
ago departed this life, leaving behind her the sharp, red-nosed
damsel to be her father's comfort. As a matter of fact, she was just
the opposite, and Simon often wished that his daughter had departed
to a better world in company with her mother. Thin, tight-laced,
with a shrill voice and an acidulated temper, Miss Twexby was still
a spinster, and not even the fact of her being an heiress could
tempt any of the Ballarat youth to lead her to the altar.
Consequently Miss Twexby's temper was not a golden one, and she
ruled the hotel and its inmates--her father included--with a rod of
iron.
Mr Villiers was a frequent customer at the Wattle Tree, and was in
the back parlour drinking brandy and water and talking to old Twexby
on the day that Pierre arrived. The dumb man came into the bar out
of the dusty road, and, leaning over the counter, pushed a letter
under Miss Twexby's nose.
'Bills?' queried that damsel, sharply.
Pierre, of course, did not answer, but touched his lips with his
hand to indicate he was dumb. Miss Twexby, however, read the action
another way.
'You want a drink,' she said, with a scornful toss of her head.
'Where's your money?'
Pierre pointed out the letter, and although it was directed to her
father, Miss Twexby, who managed everything, opened it and found it
was from McIntosh, saying that the bearer, Pierre Lemaire, was to
have a bed for the night, meals, drinks, and whatever else he
required, and that he--McIntosh--would be responsible for the money.
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