In the day she went out, but Mrs. Brigg was not to be deceived
by that. She based her observations and conclusions on weighty matters
connected with the culinary art and with things about which her trained,
disgraceful intelligence could not be deceived. Cuckoo was falling into
poverty. In the eyes of Brigg she had formerly been in touch with riches,
that is to say, she had--so the landlady considered--lived well. She had
got along without falling into debt. The exorbitant rent, regularly
earned, had been as regularly paid. The Brigg perquisites had not been
disputed. No watchful eye had been directed upon the claws that grabbed
and clung, the fingers that filched and retained.
But now was come a devastating change. Cuckoo grown, or growing, poor
was no longer easy-going. Living much less well, she also began to keep
a sharp eye on all she had. If it went mysteriously, without explanatory
action of her own, she called loudly on Brigg for enlightment. Where had
it gone? The old lady, disgusted to be brought to subterfuge, a thing to
which she was frankly unaccustomed, lied freely and with a good courage.
But her lies did not stand her in much stead with Cuckoo, who had, from
the start, no intention whatever of believing any word she might say.
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