"Is Miss Cuckoo Bright at home?"
"Miss Bright! I'll see."
The old dame turned tail, and slithered, flat-footed, to a room opening
from the dirty passage. She vanished and Julian heard two gentle voices
muttering. The old woman returned.
"This way, sir!" she said, in a voice that perpetually struggled to get
the whip-hand of an obvious bronchitis.
A moment more and Julian stood in the acute presence of the lady of
the feathers. At first he scarcely recognized her, for she had discarded
her crown of glory and now faced him in the strange frivolity of her
hatless touzled hair. She stood by the square table covered with a green
cloth, that occupied the centre of the small room, which communicated by
folding doors with an inner chamber. A pastile was burning drowsily in a
corner, and the shrill dog piped seditiously from its station on a black
horsehair-covered sofa, over which a woolwork rug was thrown in easy
_abandon_. Julian extended his hand.
"How d'you do?" he said.
"Pretty bobbish, my dear," was the reply; but the voice was much less
pert than he remembered it, and looking at his hostess, Julian perceived
that she was considerably younger than he had imagined, and that she was
actually--amazing luxury!--a little shy.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237