“Yas, sir; she’s ’spectin’ yer.”
This surprising announcement nerved Mr. Opp to open the gate.
It is said that the best-drilled soldiers dodge when they first face the firing-line, and if Mr. Opp’s knees smote together and his body became bathed in profuse perspiration, it should not be attributed to lack of manly courage.
In response to his knock, Mrs. Gusty herself opened the door. The signs that she had been interrupted in the midst of her toilet were so unmistakable that Mr. Opp promptly averted his eyes. A shawl had been hastily drawn about her shoulders, [p217] on one cheek a streak of chalk awaited distribution, and a single bristling curl-paper, rising fiercely from the top of her forehead, gave her the appearance of a startled unicorn.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Opp,” she said firmly, putting the door between them. “I can’t come out, and you can’t come in. Did you want anything?”
“Well, yes,” said Mr. Opp, looking helplessly at the blank door. “You see, there is a matter I have been considering discussing with you for a number of weeks. It’s a—”
“If it’s waited this long, I should think it could wait till to-morrow,” announced the lady with decision.
Mr. Opp felt that his courage could never again stand the strain of the last few moments. He must speak now or never.
“It’s immediate,” he managed to gasp out. “If you could arrange to give me five or ten minutes, I won’t occupy more than that.”
Mrs. Gusty considered. “I am looking [p218] for company myself at five o’clock. That wouldn’t give you much time.”