In our hall with the unmended umbrella stand and the trophy of Afghan knives I was stopped by Aunt Anastasia.
"At least I insist upon knowing," she said, "where you are going now?"
I said, quite gently and amiably: "I am going to see Million."
"Million? The little object who was the servant here? Your taste in associates becomes more and more deplorable, Beatrice. You should not forget that even if she has happened to come into money"—my aunt spoke the very word as who should say "Dross!"—and concluded: "She is scarcely a person of whom you can make a friend."
"Million has always been a very staunch little friend of mine ever since she came here," I said, not without heat. "But I am going to this hostel of hers to ask her about something that has nothing to do with 'friendship.' You have her address. You know that it's a deadly respectable place. I expect I shall stay the night there, Aunt Anastasia. Good-bye." And off I went.
I was full of my new plan—a plan that seemed to have flashed full-blown into my brain while I was putting on my boots.
It had made me almost breathless with excitement and anticipation by the time I had rung the bell of the massive, maroon-painted door of the Kensington address and had said to the bored-looking man-servant who opened it: "May I see Miss Million, please?"
Such a plan it was as I had to unfold to her!
There was something odd and unfamiliar about the appearance of Million when she ran in to greet me in her new setting—the very Early Victorian, plushy, marble-mantelpieced, glass-cased drawing-room of the Ladies' Hostelry in Kensington.
What was the unfamiliar note? She wore her Sunday blouse of white Jap silk; her brown cloth skirt that dipped a little at the back. But what was it that made her look so strange? Ah! I knew. It was so funny to see our late maid-of-all-work in the house without a cap on!