"That's my work," said the little woman who had admitted me to the house. Her tone was one of shy pride, of a kind of fluttered boastfulness.
"My sister's an artist," the elder explained, taking my three one-dollar bills as if their number didn't matter, but making conversation in order to count them surreptitiously. "She's a widow, too, Mrs. Leeming. I'm Miss Smith. We've had great sorrows. We try not to complain too much, but—"
A long-drawn sigh with a quiver in it said the rest, while Mrs. Leeming's eyes spilled tears with the readiness of a pair of fountain cups.
To escape the emotional I returned to my inspection of the landscapes, at which I was destined to gaze for another two years.
"Are these studies of—of Italy?" I asked, for the sake of showing appreciation.
Mrs. Leeming recovered herself sufficiently to be faintly indignant.
"Oh no! I never copy. I work only from imagination. Landscapes just come to me—and all different."
Before they left me Miss Smith managed to convey a few of the principles on which they conducted their house.
"We've three very refined gentlemen at present, two salesmen and a Turkish-bath attendant. One has to be so careful. We almost never take gentlemen who don't bring reference; but in your case, Mr. Soames—well, one can see." Her wan, suffering smile flickered up for a minute and died down. "There's a sort of free-masonry, isn't there? We have taken gentlemen on that, and they've never disappointed us."
I hoped I should not disappoint them, either.