The storekeeper seemed inclined to question her further; no doubt he wished to be able to count upon his bill’s being paid; but Sylvia hurried from the shop before he could speak.
The Auburn Hotel, Sulphurville, was perhaps not worse than a hotel of the same class would have been in England, but the colored servant added just enough to the prevailing squalor to make it seem worse. When Sylvia asked to see Mr. Madden the colored servant stared at her, wiped her mouth with her apron, and called:
“Mrs. Lebus!”
“Oh, Julie, is that you? What is it you want?” twanged a voice from within that sounded like a cat caught in a guitar.
“You’re wanted right now, Mrs. Lebus,” the servant called back.
The duet was like a parody of a ’coon song, and Sylvia found herself humming to ragtime:
“Oh, Mrs. Lebus, you’re wanted,
Oh yes, you’re wanted, sure you’re wanted, Mrs. Lebus,
You’re wanted, you’re wanted,
You’re wanted—right now.”
Mrs. Lebus was one of those women whose tongues are always hunting, like eager terriers. With evident reluctance she postponed the chase of an artful morsel that had taken refuge in some difficult country at the back of her mouth, and faced the problem of admitting Sylvia to the sick man’s room.
“You a relative?” she asked.