A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

It was three o'clock now, and Penn came to tell her that the car was waiting. She looked hastily round the room, and her eye fell upon the unhappy basket which had seemed so desirable to James's clerk. As she went down the stairs she wondered why its ridiculous pink ribbons had made her angry. She would have done better if she had laughed at it. Well, she was going now! There would be no basket in her room to-night.

She told the man to drive to Victoria and there she put her luggage in the cloak-room. Then she took a taxi to the house agent's office. The house agent received her with smiles. All was well. The owner would sign the agreement, and the agent's men at that very moment were making the inventory. Mrs. Heyham could have the keys, he should say, in under an hour. With such a modern style of furnishing the inventory was not a lengthy matter.

Mary had to think carefully before she decided what she should do next. She must take her luggage away from Victoria, she decided, before she sent James's letter. He was certain to ring up the chauffeur and ask where she had gone. And she might just as well, with an hour before her, get something to eat. She had had no time for lunch.

She fetched the luggage in yet another taxi, and then entrusted the letter to a district messenger. He seemed young and irresponsible for so grave a task—she found it difficult not to tell him that he must be particularly careful. After that she drove to a rival tea-shop and ordered poached eggs on toast, with the taxi ticking extravagantly outside. When the eggs came their whites had a curious crumbling consistency, and she wished that she had ordered something else. But she ate them, for she did not like to hurt the attendant's feelings. James was proud of the eggs that appeared upon the Imperial's tables.

Mary was sorry that the rules of this company did not allow its damsels to receive tips. She would have liked, if only by a lavish scattering of such things as tips, to ensure some good results for her enterprise.

The agent's clerk, obliging man, had the keys ready for her, and with them an assurance of his best attention at all times, and particularly if Mrs. Heyham should happen to be thinking of a house in Scotland again this summer.

Mary thanked him and told him she would certainly not overlook his unrivalled selection. He smiled at that, for he had been wondering what had induced such a wealthy lady to descend to a flat in Chelsea. He supposed that she must have lent her town house to a friend for a month or two, and then found that she wanted a place where she could sleep when she came up for shopping. He thought out the matter with unusual care because if there was anything wrong his clients would blame him, he felt, for his incautious hurry. He was so far justified, at any rate, that the bank had honoured Mary's cheque.

When Mary and her cab reached Cheyne Mansions there was at first a slight difficulty over the luggage. The taxi driver was tired of being kept waiting outside shops and offices while Mary transacted business, and he did not offer to carry her things upstairs. Jenkins, his wife said timidly, was out. Finally, since he was out, though it infringed all regulations, she allowed the luggage to go up in the lift. They were not really, she explained, more than what you could easily call hand luggage. Mary's desire to be lavish was again checked. It was too bad of the taxi driver to sulk on his seat instead of offering to help with the things. He was, besides, a man with a face that did not invite generosity. She gave him an extra shilling.

Mrs. Jenkins's sister Guinivere was waiting for Mary in the flat. She was a smiling child of sixteen, and Mary was glad to see her fresh little face. They unpacked together in a friendly fashion, and then Guinivere—they called her Winny at home, she said, her name being Winifred, but Mr. Jenkins thought Guinivere more suitable for service—asked Mary what she would fancy for dinner. Mary would fancy anything that Guinivere could cook nicely, and the young lady departed in high spirits at the prospect of choosing a magnificent chicken. She had long desired to try her hand at a chicken—when such dainties graced the board of Jenkins she was never allowed to touch more than the vegetables, and the bread sauce.

When the door had closed behind Guinivere, Mary went into the sitting-room which had reminded her of Rosemary. This was the moment when, according to her arrangements, she should have sat down on the odd-looking sofa and begun to think. That was what she was here for, to think in quiet. She could not have asked for more in the way of quiet, no one seemed to be stirring in the flats, even the street beneath her windows was empty of noise.