“Not at all.... Not at all,” said the voice, and Carmel knew she had to deal with a man in whom resided no laughter.
“I shall be glad to see you whenever you find it convenient to call,” she said—and hung up the receiver.
As she turned about she saw a young man standing outside the railing, a medium-sized young man who wore his shoulders slightly rounded and spectacles of the largest and most glittering variety. The collar of his coat asked loudly to be brushed and his tie had the appearance of having been tied with one hand in a dark bedroom. He removed his hat and displayed a head of extraordinarily fine formation. It was difficult to tell if he were handsome, because the rims of his spectacles masked so much of his face and because his expression was one of gloomy wrath. Carmel was tempted to laugh at the expression because it did not fit; it gave the impression of being a left-over expression, purchased at a reduction, and a trifle large for its wearer.
“May I ask,” he said, in a voice exactly suited to his stilted diction, “if you are in charge of this—er—publication?”
“I am,” said Carmel.
“I wish,” said the young man, “to address a communication to the citizens of this village through the—er—medium of your columns.”
So this, thought Carmel, was the sort of person who wrote letters to newspapers. She had often wondered what the species looked like.
“On what subject?” she asked.
“Myself,” said he.
“It should be an interesting letter,” Carmel said, mischievously.