At nine she sent to say she should go, but could not think of dragging him there: she should take her maid.
Before eleven, she half repented this resolution, but her maid kept her to it; and at half past twelve next day they reached Mr. Rolfe's door; an old-fashioned, mean-looking house, in one of the briskest thoroughfares of the metropolis; a cabstand opposite to the door, and a tide of omnibuses passing it.
Lady Bassett viewed the place discontentedly, and said to herself, “What a poky little place for a writer to live in; how noisy, how unpoetical!”
They knocked at the door. It was opened by a maid-servant.
“Is Mr. Rolfe at home?”
“Yes, ma'am. Please give me your card, and write the business.”
Lady Bassett took out her card and wrote a line or two on the back of it. The maid glanced at it, and showed her into a room, while she took the card to her master.
The room was rather long, low, and nondescript; scarlet flock paper; curtains and sofas green Utrecht velvet; woodwork and pillars white and gold; two windows looking on the street; at the other end folding-doors with scarcely any wood-work, all plate-glass, but partly hidden by heavy curtains of the same color and material as the others. Accustomed to large, lofty rooms, Lady Bassett felt herself in a long box here; but the colors pleased her. She said to Mary Wells, “What a funny, cozy little place for a gentleman to live in!”
Mr. Rolfe was engaged with some one, and she was kept waiting; this was quite new to her, and discouraged her, already intimidated by the novelty of the situation.
She tried to encourage herself by saying it was for her husband she did this unusual thing; but she felt very miserable and inclined to cry.