‘A cat looking in at a window,’ answered a silvery voice from the darkness.
Flattened against the self-same pane was another nose, a woman’s. It was the lovely organ of mixed architecture belonging to Philippa! With a low cry of amazement, I broke the pane: it was no idle vision, no case of the ‘horrors;’ the cold, cold nose of my Philippa encountered my own. The ice was now broken; she swept into my chamber, lovelier than ever in her strange unearthly beauty, and a new sealskin coat. Then she seated herself with careless grace, tilting back her chair, and resting her feet on the chimney-piece.
‘Dear Philippa,’ I exclaimed politely, ‘how is your husband?’
‘Husband! I have none,’ she hissed. ‘Tell me, Basil, did you ever hate a fellow no end?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, truly; for, like Mr. Carlyle, I just detested most people, and him who had robbed me of Philippa most of all.
‘Do you know what he did, Basil? He insisted on having a latch-key! Did you ever hate a man?’
I threw out my arms. My heart was full of bitterness.
‘He did more! He has refused to pay my last quarter’s salary. Basil, didn’t you ever hate a man?’
My brain reeled at these repeated outrages.
‘And where are you staying at present, Philippa? I hope you are pretty comfortable?’ I inquired, anxiously.