"I kept my promise the other day, Quincy," said she, "when the three girls were here. What a sweet, rosy-cheeked, healthy, happy trio they were! I wasn't more than twenty myself that day. I give you my solemn promise, Quincy, that I won't smoke a cigarette nor drink a glass of wine while Alice is here,—until after she goes to bed; and then I'll eat a clove and air the room out thoroughly before I let her in in the morning."
Quincy was up early next morning, and at ten minutes of nine reached the lodging house in Myrtle Street. He had taken a carriage, for he knew Miss Very would have her luggage, probably a trunk. His call at the door was answered by a sharp-eyed, hatchet-faced woman, whose face was red with excitement. To Quincy's inquiry if Miss Very was in, the woman replied, "that she was in and was likely to stay in."
"I trust she is not sick," said Quincy.
"No! she ain't sick," the woman replied, "what you mean by sick; but there's worse things than bein' sick, especially when a poor widder has a big house rent to pay and coal seven dollars and a half a ton."
A small trunk, neatly strapped, stood in the hallway. Glancing into the stuffy little parlor, he saw a woman, apparently young, with her veil down, seated on a sofa, with a large valise on the floor and a hand bag at her side.
Quincy divined the situation at once. Stepping into the hallway, he closed the parlor door, and, turning to the woman, said, "How much?"
"Three dollars," replied the woman, "and it's cheap enough for—"
"A miserable little dark stuffy side room, without any heat, up three flights, back," broke in Quincy, as he passed her the money.
The woman was breathless with astonishment and anger. Taking advantage of this, Quincy opened the parlor door, first beckoning to the coachman to come in and get the trunk.