“Oh, it's you,” she said, bobbing down to look at the newcomer. None entered her bar-parlour unless invited.
“Come in,” said the landlady. There was a peculiar intonation in her complacent voice, which showed she had been expecting him, a little irritably.
He went across into her bar-parlour. It would not hold more than eight or ten people, all told—just the benches along the walls, the fire between—and two little round tables.
“I began to think you weren't coming,” said the landlady, bringing him a whiskey.
She was a large, stout, high-coloured woman, with a fine profile, probably Jewish. She had chestnut-coloured eyes, quick, intelligent. Her movements were large and slow, her voice laconic.
“I'm not so late, am I?” asked Aaron.
“Yes, you are late, I should think.” She Looked up at the little clock. “Close on nine.”
“I did some shopping,” said Aaron, with a quick smile.
“Did you indeed? That's news, I'm sure. May we ask what you bought?”
This he did not like. But he had to answer.