“But—”
“I know, I know; there’s been a dreadful tragedy next door to it; but it’s about the Shaffer house itself I want some information. Has it an agent, a—”
“Of course it has an agent, and here is his name.”
Mr. Brown presented her with a card on which he had hastily written both name and address.
She thanked him, dropped him a mocking curtsey full of charm, whispered “Don’t tell father,” and was gone.
Her manner to the man she next interviewed was very different. As soon as she saw him she subsided into her usual society manner. With just a touch of the conceit of the successful debutante, she announced herself as Miss Strange of Seventy-second Street. Her business with him was in regard to the possible renting of the Shaffer house. She had an old lady friend who was desirous of living downtown.
In passing through Seventeenth Street, she had noticed that the old Shaffer house was standing empty and had been immediately struck with the advantages it possessed for her elderly friend’s occupancy. Could it be that the house was for rent? There was no sign on it to that effect, but—etc.
His answer left her nothing to hope for.
“It is going to be torn down,” he said.
“Oh, what a pity!” she exclaimed. “Real colonial, isn’t it! I wish I could see the rooms inside before it is disturbed. Such doors and such dear old-fashioned mantelpieces as it must have! I just dote on the Colonial. It brings up such pictures of the old days; weddings, you know, and parties;—all so different from ours and so much more interesting.”