"Playing?" Mrs. Clarke repeated the one word that had caught her wandering attention. "Is he an actor?"
"No; he is a musician. He used to play in big orchestras in New York and
Boston. He plays the fiddle."
For the rest of the way into town Mrs. Clarke was strangely preoccupied. She sat very straight, with eyes slightly contracted, and looked absently out of the window. Once or twice she began a sentence without finishing it. At the cathedral steps she laid a detaining hand on Nance's arm.
"By the way, what did you say was the name of the old man you are going to see?"
"I never said. It's Demry."
"Demry—Never mind, I just missed the step. I'm quite all right. I think
I will go with you to see this—this—house they are talking about."
"But it's in the alley. Mrs. Clarke; it's awfully dirty."
"Yes, yes, but I'm coming. Can we go through here?"
So impatient was she that she did not wait for Nance to lead the way, but hurried around the bishop's study and down the concrete walk to the gate that opened into the alley.
"Look out for your skirt against the garbage barrel," warned Nance. It embarrassed her profoundly to have Mrs. Clarke in these surroundings; she hated the mud that soiled her dainty boots, the odors that must offend her nostrils, the inevitable sights that awaited her in Number One. She only prayed that Mrs. Snawdor's curl-papered head might not appear on the upper landing.